Silk & Sable
by Sekah
Summary: The Lord Karasu, an aristocrat known for his cruelty, returns to his favorite bordello for some illicit fun. There, the son of a bourgeois recently sold into prostitution catches his eye. Contains yaoi, yuri, and het, though the main pairing is Kara/Kura.
1. Bordello

Author's Note: I came up with this fic while reading Yoshinaga Fumi's manga Gerard & Jacques. If you see the similarities (and you should), forgive me. The idea came into my head and I had to indulge it. This is an AU (which means that this isn't set in Yu Yu Hakusho's universe, but in an "author's universe" of my own creation), and just as a warning, this isn't the entire story—the entire story is up on Adultfanfiction (dot) net, under my same screenname, Sekah. There will be many, many sex scenes in this fic that you, dear Fanfiction (dot) net readers, won't get to see unless you're old enough. I am sorry about that, since I remember what it was like before I had enough years under my belt to hop between the sites, but rules are rules. In the meantime, the basic plot is right here, and I think you'll enjoy it.

A final note before we start (and I know, my A.N. shouldn't be this long): THIS FIC WILL NOT BE HISTORICALLY ACCURATE. To say I take liberties doesn't cover it, I'm incorporating some true historical places and devices with a lot of fake things. I haven't even picked an era yet, really—I want to say that it's based on the Georgian era, but this story contains strong elements from the Regency era, and even incorporates the Elizabethan or Reconstruction periods at times. 'Georgian' refers to a period in the early-to-late 1700s in England, which is where I'm trying to fit this.

And that's all, I suppose. Have fun!

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu Hakusho or any of the non-OC characters in here. I'm not making money off of this, though there are times that I wish I was.

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The Viscount Kurogawa, known to friends and enemies alike as Lord Karasu, readjusted his tricorne with the tip of his cane as he held his excitement in a tight fist, stepping down the rungs of the carriage with his fingers light on its doorway. His face turned from an affected look of ennui and back to one of satisfied interest, shutting the carriage's door with a swing of his stick. He adjusted his hat again, putting it to a rakish angle, clearly relieved to be out of the cramped, acrid confines of the hack, and examined the iced-over grime and animal feces that were churned to a soup beneath his feet by wheels and hooves, the soft whickers of the horses hardly stirring him. Grimacing in distaste, glad for the galoshes attached to his fashionable suede shoes, he began to pick his way through the muddy thoroughfare.

The houses that populated this rue were perched precariously above the walkway and road, looking for all the world like a row of bumpkin matrons, come together in their dotage to chatter about home and hearth in the faded background of a market square. Karasu tossed a coin to the man standing hunched on the driver's shelf behind the hack, barely glancing at him as he did so. He felt as secure of his place in this little corner of the Makai as he did everywhere else in the Great Reaches, and made no attempt to help as the driver's mittens parted and the coin was fumbled, grasped, bit, and pocketed. His manner was every inch that of an uninterested and cavalier nobleman, drawn to this street out of a perverse desire for the amusements offered by its inhabitants.

Karasu glanced sharply towards a shout from behind him, and smiled in idle greeting, both he and his hailing peer too at ease to be surreptitious about their lusts. He took in the spindly towers of the building in front of him with greedy eyes, ignoring the low rasp of the driver begging him to, "Please get out of my way, m'lord, I gotta be at me next stop." It was important, Karasu knew, to savor the moment when returning to this, his favorite of the bordellos that populated this part of the city. The White Fox prided itself on its exquisite service to the wealthy upper crust, though on the outside it was no different from any of the other limestone hovels that lined this infamous back street. Its only defining feature was its barred and shuttered windows, keeping those without from looking in and those within from looking out.

Strutting to the front door, a roughly polished slab of oak, Karasu barely noticed the distant acquaintance that laughed and hooted across the street, entertaining his rent-girl with an engaging (if entirely false) story of a duel he'd had with his elder brother. The prostitute giggled coquettishly, obviously pleased to be on the arm of a wealthy and handsome young man—doubtlessly even more pleased to be out of the stifling air of her brothel.

The hack began to drive off behind Karasu, jerking into motion as the driver shouted a final 'heeyah!' to his two misshapen horses, flicking his whip expertly at their hindquarters and rolling up the edges of his plain coat's graying cuffs. The animals trotted off wearily, their plodding gaits echoing along the lines of dirty stone as Karasu rapped the brass ring knocker fastened to the door, a look much older than his twenty-seven years in his eyes as they narrowed in delight. Once the knocker was stilled, the Viscount adjusted his fine silk gloves, their sable cloth setting off his lordship's satin-tied ponytail perfectly. He scraped the muck that defiled his shoes off of them and onto the wrought-iron boot scraper fastened to the building's landing.

Hushed voices poured and blended together in a rush behind the door, before a peeping hole was dragged aside and a lovely, if jaded set of pure hazel eyes glowered out at him. The peephole was replaced, and more muffled voices debated and murmured, before the door was suddenly swung open, revealing dim warmth and a wave of laughter to the gloomy outsides of the street.

The owner of those hazel eyes, a composed young woman of indeterminate class, smiled an entirely false and slightly satirical smile as she took in the richly dressed Viscount. Behind her, a pretty young man with long blue hair tied into a high horsetail sneered at the entering noble and retreated into a side room, the origins of his disdainful attitude unclear. Every inch the aristocrat, Karasu's eyes narrowed dangerously. He made a note to request that boy at a later date and teach him the value of manners.

"Why should I let you in, m'lord? That bastard friend of yours, Lord Kyosuke, still hasn't paid his dues to me."

Lord Karasu chuckled softly, pride and grace and cold winter evident in his voice as he replied, "You will let me in, girl, and you know you will; I have the money to pay you. And I believe you meant to say 'my lord the Earl Sakyo,' or something similar?"

"Kyosuke can posture himself as a member of the blasted peerage as frequently as he likes, he's just Lord Kyosuke to me."

"Perhaps he'd pay you your due if you showed him the proper respect, then, Miss Shizuru."

The twenty-two year old girl snorted and looked him coolly in the eyes, aware that the obeisance he'd shown by addressing her with 'Miss' was more out of mockery than deference, and quickly finished up their conversation. "We've got a new boy today, just your type. It's his first time, too, so you'll have to be a little nicer than usual." She paused, something coming to mind. "Or not, knowing you. Youko will tell you all about him in a moment. In the meantime, I'll take off your cloppers and you can come with me."

Karasu smiled a soft, sinuous smile as he was wryly directed to sit on one of the lolling chairs that were squeezed into the entrance way for this specific purpose. He watched, amused, as the girl removed the galoshes ('cloppers,' the plebes called them) from the bottom of his shoes and left them carelessly in a basket for the purpose. Shizuru took a wool rag and polished the last of the mire away, examined the soles for a moment to see if they looked presentable, and finally rose and beckoned languidly to Karasu. While he swiftly righted himself, she slipped behind him to slide the lock into place, and then slipped ahead again to lead the way. He followed her down the long aisle, smiling again, faintly, at its familiar carpet, casually worn and faded by years of the light tread of whores and the shuffling, stomping boots of patrons.

Laughter and groans, good-time noises, the thumps and creaks of beds, all echoed softly from behind closed doors as they passed by framed pictures of their Queen, Mukuro, and pleasant paintings of hanging gardens being tended by buxom young women, illuminated by a series of beeswax candles flickering in their iron sconces. If one didn't hear the sounds of men whispering sweet nothings into bought girls-and-boys' ears, one would think this was a private residence, or some sort of letting house that gave rooms to those with money to pay for them. The truth was much more sordid than that.

Shizuru didn't bother looking back at her trailing ward, well aware that Lord Karasu knew these halls better than she at times. He eyed the few things that had changed since he last came here, the night before he was called out to the palace to join in the war, and felt completely unperturbed by the narrowness of the halls or the low, richly patterned ceilings, which had been known to make lesser men cringe. He swung his cane jauntily, polishing the knob at the top with a handkerchief he kept up his ruffed sleeve as his excitement mounted.

"Tell me more about this boy," he commanded, fishing for information to feed his growing lust.

"Pretty. Very pretty. Like I said, you'll see when we get there. And, in fact, here we are!" she cried sarcastically, earning a peeved snort from the Viscount as he looked down his nose at her.

Shizuru opened a door into a common living area that was almost certainly built to serve as a sitting room or dining area or something of the sort, and not the focal point of a bordello. It was spacious, with a desk situated to the left a few feet from the wall, bolted to the floor and kept there with large, obvious locks on each foot (with more on the cabinets). Behind the business-like desk leaned a tall, handsome man, quite obviously carrying the demeanor of a former prostitute, who stood and smiled, clasping his palms together with delight upon seeing one of his favorite customers.

"My Lord Kurogawa! A pleasure, a real pleasure to see you again." One of the reasons Karasu enjoyed this whorehouse, more than all the rest of them combined, was Youko, the famous (though some might say infamous) monsieur of the White Fox. It was true that his workers were always pretty, clever, and clean, and that he kept a good supply of new ones (those were the type that Karasu loved to ply his art on), but it was also rare that one found a person of such wit and taste in the lower classes. On top of that, Youko never truly deferred to Karasu, and Karasu enjoyed that.

Karasu was also exceptionally fond of the stories Youko told of a life spent in brothels—and many a night, alone in his room, Karasu had examined a mental image of what Youko would have looked like when he was young and fresh, at the top of his game, and found himself reaching the joyous pinnacles of lust as he teased himself into erection. If Youko would take the money, he'd love to couple with him, but the legendary white fox no longer did such transactions on a monetary basis.

The Viscount Kurogawa allowed himself a stifled sigh of longing as his eyes traveled the tight, well-muscled body, wanting to feel it above him, knowing it would excite even more pleasure than that of Lord Bui. Bui, a young baron Karasu had taken up with, couldn't hope to compare with the Whore of the Makai's doubtlessly unbelievable skills. Youko smiled, knowing why he was looking, and flattered to have someone so young and handsome gaze at him in such a way. Not for much longer, he thought. Such was the life of a paid man: unless you own a shop yourself, they forget all about you after a couple of years, writing you out of history as though you'd never been at all.

"I was told that you had a new boy to be showcased today, one I'd love to meet," Karasu hummed. He smirked under heavy, sardonic lids as he looked at the soft white hair perked above Youko's appealing face. A proud nose and golden slits of eyes gave Youko a clever, striking look, one that Karasu often admired.

"Ah, yes. He's been giving us some trouble, that one. I'm afraid he hasn't resigned himself to the life he must lead. Still, he's very beautiful: fifteen or sixteen, flawless skin, crimson hair like downy feathers, glass-green eyes, and…" he paused, and smiled softly, almost wolfishly to himself, as he leaned in close to whisper in Karasu's ear (a tradesman to the last), "completely untouched." Those last two words were said with the same amount of care and confidentiality used to impart a deadly secret, vital to the continued workings of the nation.

"Untouched?"

"Yes. New to the trade, and I will swear to you, no one with a mite of experience would have reacted to the virginity test like that."

"Untouched, you say. A great beauty, and untouched." Karasu thought for a moment. "What kind of trouble is he giving you?"

Youko sighed lugubriously, skillfully angling for business as he took a sip of the flask of liquor he always kept by his hip and put on a slightly theatrical tone. "He refuses to take lessons in pleasing men. To add insult to injury, he won't eat, he won't drink, he cries rather than sleep, and claims he'd rather die than be used. I'm afraid his first client will have to tie him up or hold him down, and I would need extra payment for that. If you force them, they generally won't stay willingly, and often carry on in such a way…"

Karasu smirked, recognizing that this was all being thrown in to tempt him and force him to pay a higher bill. "If he's such a prize, and requires such rough handling," he chuckled, "then give him to me. I will pay gladly for the boy's first time, if he is as precious as you say. What's the child's name?"

Youko smirked as well, glad that the pleasantries were almost over with. "We've decided to give him the name 'Kurama,' assuming he warms up to business." Youko saw the look of impatience on Lord Karasu's face, and smiled again, quite toothily. "He will insist on being called Shuuichi, though."

"Shuuichi, hm?" Karasu said. Excitement laced his velvet voice as he slowly picked up and examined the idea of plucking such a tender young flower, looking at it from every angle.

Shuuichi was a good name for a newly turned rent-boy, Karasu thought, showcasing his innocence; and the sparks he exhibited by refusing to accept his lot in life were causing a similar fire, though for very different reasons, inside the handsome Viscount. In no time at all, all he could imagine was the joy of showing this firebrand the ins-and-outs of concupiscence and sexual thrill. That he would be resistant to the lessons allowed a soft, insidious grin to creep onto Karasu's face.

He was decided. It might lighten his purse considerably, but what of that? Youko never lied nor exaggerated true beauty more than a little, and this was the first time Lord Karasu had heard him speak of one of his workers in such flattering terms. It was exciting indeed, to be faced with such a proposition when he'd come expecting something much more mundane. "Take me to him, then. This transaction rests purely on whether he's pretty enough for my money."

"Believe my word, he certainly is. Shizuru, watch the desk, and make sure Shishi is out guarding the front door. I'll be back soon." Those words, directed towards Shizuru, lacked the honey he used when addressing Lord Karasu, and were backed up by an authoritative gesture towards the desk.

Shizuru snorted, her real disapproval finally showing its face. She leaned against the doorway, giving each of the men a hard look. "Why can't you leave the poor boy alone?"

Youko stopped and matched her look with another, equally hard. "What," Youko returned imperiously, "And let him starve? Allow him to be forced into a much less kind, much less spacious, much less clean low-level brothel anyway, despite his naïve bravado? What a cruel proposition you suggest."

Considering the matter closed, Youko turned to the Lord and began leading him charmingly towards the back stairs, which led to the larger rooms where the most profitable of Youko's prostitutes lived and worked, both of the men blithely ignorant of the pointed glare in Shizuru's eyes as she scowled after them. She snorted again, to herself this time, and stalked over to Youko's desk. Shizuru sat primly in the boss's chair, putting her feet up and crossing them in a way that was sure to earn a beating if Youko saw it, her slimly cut muslin dress riding immodestly up.

She pulled one of Youko's beloved tobacco knots from the unlocked drawer he kept them in, twisting it into the neatly engraved scrimshaw pipe he'd left balanced on the iron ashtray atop his desk. She pulled a straw from the broom hidden by her feet and stuck it into the coal heater that Youko used to warm himself in this cold weather, setting it aflame, and then using the flames to set the pipe smoking. Commandeering her master's pipe was the only thing she could do to show her disapproval of a virgin boy being deflowered by a man of Karasu's ilk, handed over like a lamb to slaughter, the knife held to his throat. A boy like Shuuichi, she thought, so young and impressionable, deserved better than that vulgar Lord Karasu.

In the end, though, who was she to say? Youko could be doing the best thing for Shuuichi, crushing the last of his hopes and dreams so he could be reborn from the ashes. She took another drag on the pipe, and let the smoke pour out of her mouth in a lacy cloud. Whether for good or ill, the whole thing just didn't sit right.

As she mused away, taking drag after drag of her master's best tobacco and gnawing the ivory mouthpiece out of shape, Youko kept up a mild conversation with the unresponsive Viscount, trying to turn his head from the games and debaucheries Youko was fully aware were playing behind his eyes. He attempted to distract the vicious, focused look on the lord's face by relating amusing anecdotes of other prostitutes (usually as they passed the room containing them) or stories of this new boy's many eccentricities.

"And he always demands that there be flowers in his room. Do you believe that? An introductory rent boy _demanding_ that there be a new bouquet in his room every day! They have to be roses, too, and freshly cut. Sometimes he dashes them to the floor if they're not just-picked and dewy! It doesn't seem to matter how many times I beat the boy, I can never beat such things out of him."

"He sounds a true terror. I shall have to do some beating myself, I suppose."

Youko, hearing the malicious tone of Lord Karasu's voice, paused outside the door to the most spacious room in the bordello, usually given to a more recent kit (as Youko called his newest workers) to reduce jealousy and unhealthy competition amongst the others. The empathy Youko thought he'd successfully ground down into nothingness over the many years raised its head to feebly sniff at the winds. "You won't be too hard on him, will you?" he asked. "He really is very young. You would never believe that he were above fifteen if you hadn't seen incontrovertible proof. He looks it, but he doesn't act his age at all. It would be a shame…" he murmured, obviously overcome by the mild guilt, "if you were to break him completely on his first time. He's very scared of carnality, you see, for better or for worse—though that's to be expected. He is a virgin, after all."

Karasu paused, his hand tightening on the cane, and then smiled a smile that was far from settling and extremely cold, seeing that he needed to put Youko at his ease. He was unaware that his haughtiness was turning that attempt into a failure. "Even I have enough morals not to unleash myself in such a way upon someone as young and pure as you describe, M. Youko. You needn't worry."

Youko saw clearly that there was great cause to worry, but it was already too late. He couldn't back down now that things had been put in motion, and hopefully he'd get a nice thick portion of coin out of it. The boy was Lord Karasu's now. "Just… I beg of you, my lord, show him gentility if at all possible," he said, in a final attempt to assuage his nagging conscience. Then the knob was turned and the door opened, and Karasu's cold heart soared higher than it had ever soared before.

"Is he to your liking?" Youko whispered, and the boy standing silhouetted against the barred, nailed-shut window, the merest cracks of light dancing in his scarlet hair, tensed angrily. Karasu wordlessly pulled out his coin pouch and poured three-fourths of it, an extremely generous amount indeed, into Youko's hands. Hearing the clink of money, the slim, graceful form turned, and Karasu was fixed with eyes of such a pure, tender green, cracking with hate, that he nearly sank to his knees. He wanted nothing but to look into those eyes again and again, to see every expression that they held, trace every individual vein of clear emerald from its start to its finish a hundred times over.

"So he… he did. He's sold me. You're my customer," rose petal lips whispered in accusation, forming those words from inside an ethereal fairy face, round and moon-shaped and beautiful. Tears began to fill those eyes, and Karasu longed to kiss them, lick them away as he gently violated him into eternity. Graceful hands fisted, and then suddenly the fairy face was screaming. "I won't, do you hear me? I don't care who you are! I'm not some whore, I'm me, and you can't have me!"

Youko excused himself and closed the door, leaving Shuuichi alone with the Viscount. Karasu's eyes burned as he reached back to lock it behind him, a wide, cruel smile adorning his face, the widest and cruelest he'd ever smiled in his life. This young angel, Shuuichi, continued guilelessly on, obviously disturbed by the look on his face and the sound of the lock sliding into its ratchet, but determined to say his piece. "I will not! I will not! You can't make me!"

"Silence," Karasu hissed, his voice suddenly dark and thick. The boy was his, at least for the next few hours. Even those hours seemed too short; and yet the fear on this boy's face, Shuuichi (who, if Karasu had any say in it, would be called Kurama forever more after tonight), awakened fires in Lord Karasu that were better left dampened.

_To be continued._

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End Note: reviews are really nice, and help me know whether I'm going in a good direction with this story. If you'd like to, please, hit that button and tell me what you think. I promise you that each one, both big and small, makes my day. Also, there was a large scene cut from the bottom of this, which is up on my Adultfanfiction acount, which you can find a link for in my profile. Forgive me! I wish I could put it up here, but that's against the site's policy.

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And now, for some quick explanations and notes:

(1) _Tricorne:_ A tricorner hat.

_(2) Hackney, or hack: _A horse-drawn carriage in use at the time that was the precursor to the hansom cab._  
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_(3) Scrimshaw: _Carvings of whale bones, often done by whalers as a way to pass time. Something like a usable pipe would be a rare commodity, and is a sign of the success of Youko's business. Ivory doesn't have to be from elephant tusks, too, in case you were wondering—whale bones are also considered ivory._  
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The reason the windows are boarded up, by the way, is because of the window tax (which is going to exist in this world). All of the less-affluent or stingy residences, you'll soon notice, will have boarded-or-bricked windows because their owners couldn't or didn't want to pay the tax.


	2. Beautiful

A.N.: Thank you kindly, everyone who took the time to read the first chapter, and anyone who's now taking the time to read the second. This chapter's beginning and mid-end definitely earn an M rating, so please remember that before you proceed. It's not explicit, but once again, it is there. Oh, and even though Karasu/Kurama is one of my favorite pairings, I have to warn you: in this fic, it's not two-sided—Karasu is obsessed with Kurama, and Kurama despises him in return. You'll see the real consensual pairings as the fic goes on. Once again, the copy that you see here is the abridged version. The rest is up on Adultfanfiction (dot) net, under my same screenname, Sekah, in the Yu Yu Hakusho section. I like the uncut version a lot better for this chapter, so I encourage you to look it up.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu, and I'm not making any money off of the production of this material.

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The Viscount fully expected him to lie there quietly for some time, coming to terms with his situation as Lord Karasu sipped the water that was standard issue in this bordello, always found on the nightstand to the side of the bed—but Shuuichi (or was it Kurama?) surprised him. Karasu watched with cruel eyes as Shuuichi raised his delicate upper body from the mattress and groped for the sweaty and used linen shift, pulling it back over himself with the softest sob imaginable.

Shuuichi trembled as he felt the clawed fingers of pain drag up and down him, aiding his emotional trauma. His lower back was on fire, and he hurt—to put it simply, he hurt. His emotions and mind cringed into the solace of his body as he crawled dimly to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs out from under him and trying to stand. He did so with the foggy objective of walking to the window, unable to abide the bedding any longer.

His legs buckled almost the second he put weight on them, however, under the influence of a deadly tincture of weakness, exhaustion, and pain. He stumbled backwards into the bed, clutching the already mussed and dirtied sheets as he fell and dragging them down with him. They rested with clinging hands on top of his soiled body, mirroring those of his client that had held and touched him with insatiable fire until only a few moments ago. Then, in a bizarre shift, he began to remember his mother's quilts, sewn out of love for him and tucking him into bed every night.

He lowered his head again, his hands fisting in the blankets as he wrapped them further around himself, suddenly needing that comfort. It proved to be an empty assurance. He became aware of a patch of drying sweat on the cloth, and that, the patch of drying sweat, brought the whole overwhelming situation firmly back into his mind. For the first time, he realized the full enormity of what he was facing, and with that terror as his only means of soothing himself, Shuuichi began to cry in earnest. He threw the blankets away from him, leaving his body to lie crumpled on the floor, folded in on itself with woe.

Karasu was up in an instant, walking over to kneel down and take him into his arms. Afraid of the pain defiance would cause, Shuuichi cringed silently away from the man who had, though not single-handedly, torn the last of the clear, natural merriment of his old life away, and sullied it, spat on it, soiled all the old Shuuichi's simple joys.

"Now darling," Lord Karasu said softly, the part of him that still held some humanity and kindness demanding that he make a small amends for taking pleasure from Shuuichi's terrorized body, "There's no need to carry on in such a way. I understand it was difficult for you, but it was your place as a prostitute to give what you gave, and my place as a paying customer to take it. Such is the way of the world."

"Why?" Shuuichi, Kurama, the boy, asked with a soft, bold edge.

"Hm?"

"Why is it the way of the world? Who decided that this perversion was… was acceptable? Should I look for such a cruel mandate in the stars, or here, on Earth? I didn't . . . want this," he whispered, "I didn't want this," Shuuichi repeated, a little louder, before finally crying out in rage, "_I didn't want this!_ Why did it have to be that way? Why do you have the right to take my pride, my happiness, my whole_ life_ away from me, simply because you're in a position of power and I'm not? I hate you! I will never…" his voice began to pick up power as he yelled, "forgive you! I will never forgive you! I—"

He was too busy with his protestations to notice that Lord Karasu's eyes had become progressively harder and flintier than any man's eyes should be as his outburst escalated. Shuuichi was shouting into his lap, and never saw the way those violet depths darkened to the color of grape wine, getting deeper and colder with every word he spoke. He remained ignorant as the Viscount considered him, his lips pursed in anger, and then reached dexterously towards the favorite walking stick he'd left leaning against the side table when he'd first entered Shuuichi's luxurious prison. In fact, it wasn't until the cane was suddenly forced against his throat, and he could no longer breathe, that Shuuichi realized with a fearful rush who his audience was and what he held.

Karasu had had enough. He had indulged the child, shown him kindness, been much gentler than he would have liked to be (mindful that it was the boy's purity he was handling), and how did he repay him? By brazenly announcing his hatred of all the benevolence Karasu had shown! It was insufferable! Truly insufferable! Karasu's famously short temper snapped like a knife to taut leather, and he was fully prepared to punish Shuuichi for his own guilt.

"Not another word, brat," Karasu snarled. Shuuichi clawed and pressed at the wood that was successfully suffocating him, his legs kicking and his body twisting while he wheezed, tears of need leaking down his flushed cheeks. "I promised you that if you resisted I would show you what happens to cantankerous rent-boys. Shall I make good on that promise?"

Shuuichi shook his head wildly, but found himself grabbed by the hair and bent over Karasu's knees. Shuuichi began to shake as though possessed by a devil as his hands clung to Karasu's trouser leg in supplication.

The thick cane came down across his back regardless of his silent attempts to plead, and Shuuichi yowled, though it was half-stifled by Lord Karasu's hand pressing against his mouth. Shuuichi couldn't decide which he hated more: the cane, or the taste of Karasu's sweat against his nose and lips. It came whistling down for a second round, across his thin back again, and then up and down with frightening force, the intent look on Lord Karasu's face speaking volumes.

Shuuichi made such sounds that finally there was a polite, anxious knock on the door, and Youko enquired if everything was as it should be. Karasu, hearing that, shoved the cringing boy to the floor, watching Shuuichi's chest heave with bitter sobs as his body lay sprawled and lifeless, resembling a distraught mannequin more than an adolescent boy. The Viscount raised his voice to inform Youko that everything was fine, he was just teaching darling Shuuichi how to react with respect to his clients. A worried silence echoed from behind the door, as though there were many things the silver-haired harem owner wanted to say; but finally he apologized and excused himself again, politely. The lock never came undone.

Karasu regarded his victim coldly. "Get up, Kurama."

Shuuichi, too frightened and pained to protest that that wasn't his name, crawled unsteadily to his feet. He winced when hands grasped his hips and pulled him closer. "I give you leave to state your real feelings now. I will allow you to wash yourself after that, if you haven't displeased me too greatly."

"Why are you doing this? You're treating me like a toy, or a doll you can break at whim! It hurts," he moaned desperately, "It hurts. Everything you've done only makes me hurt more. If this is what I'll have to endure, I'd rather die!" The last phrase, delivered with his head tilted defiantly upward, was directed more towards the heavens than anything here on this mortal plane.

Karasu considered Shuuichi calmly, his sly mind polishing the idea he'd crafted earlier in the afternoon as he took in the resistant, shivering form before him. "I have a proposition for you, then, lovely." Shuuichi looked down into false eyes and shuddered. "Live with me as an indentured servant. This life obviously doesn't suit one as delicate as you. If you refuse, I don't want to hear anymore of this nonsense. I'll bend you over and take you again, too, as a final gift to you. Breaking you in will be the sweetest of all my presents, you'll soon find out."

"Why," Shuuichi asked softly, with a hint of iron, "if it's supposedly my choice, would you harm me if I refuse?"

"Not harm, my darling, help. Help to teach you how a prostitute must act, so when men with less patience than me serve as your customer, you'll know how to please them."

Shuuichi heard his proposal out in half-stony, half-tremulous silence. When Karasu finished speaking, Shuuichi was immediately overcome with his first instinct, to refuse. Not just to refuse, in fact, but to do so by wildly insulting Lord Karasu and all his contrived sympathy. Shuuichi longed with all his heart to tell this self-righteous Lord how despicable, how disgusting, and how horrid he was; that his hair was ridiculous; that he smelt of perfumes, like a woman; and a good many other things besides.

His second instinct, even stronger than the first, was to spit in this depraved man's face. That would be absolutely rich, and for a few seconds only the knowledge of Karasu's far-from-lenient retribution stopped him. His third and final instinct, however, was perhaps the most foolish of all: he didn't want to shut any doors before they'd had a chance to open.

"If I enter your household," Shuuichi said after the long, thoughtful pause had reached its zenith, "will you extend the protections of an indentured servant? They can't be made to…to fornicate, not against their will."

The Viscount paused, surprised by the boy's knowledge and amused by his choice of words. "That _is_ true, though I would expect you to occasionally service me," he replied carefully, trying to trap this prized young fox in a ravine so he could club him down.

"Then what's the difference?" Shuuichi asked, the cunning that would one day become an important facet of his personality forming slowly under the tutorship of Karasu and his sick hobbies. "Whichever way I turn, I'll be nothing but a whore."

Karasu, a General determined not to lose the war itself, though a skirmish had just been conceded, quickly put on his kindest, gentlest face, honed from years of trickery and deceit, and carefully adjusted to settle pretty young things down so he could maneuver them into his bed. "Yes, but the only one who'll touch you is I," he said. Karasu felt a fierce surge of jealousy at those words. By God, no one would have this angel but him! "Instead of many men, over many years, not all of them as kind as I have been."

Shuuichi was fully aware that this man was far from as benign as he claimed, and the urge to spit at Karasu returned—but he was still just inexperienced enough to believe that maybe this cruel, egotistical lord wasn't the worst that he would be faced with if he stayed. He was still naïve enough to think, to hope, that being the toy of only one man was preferable to being the toy of legions of men, hoards of men, until the day came when he no longer cared what was done to his body.

"What do you say, lovely?"

He realized, however, that he'd eventually cease to care either way, and that was a terrible blow to Shuuichi's already wounded pride. Karasu, meanwhile, was waiting patiently, an expression very like that of a spider on the edge of its web complimenting his face, crawling its way to the feast bound in the middle.

Shuuichi closed his eyes. "Give me the ability to refuse," he finally pleaded. "Write it into my certificate of indenture. I'll… I'll service you, but please, please don't give yourself complete leeway. Please, give me some dignity."

"Fine, lovely. But I have a request as well: instead of Shuuichi, how would you like to be known as Kurama? At your discretion, of course." Karasu felt the barest pang of remorse, quickly foiled, that this boy was so childish he believed that asking for something nicely was cause enough for it to be given to him. Then he put on a reassuring smile, his second one of the night, and was once again unaware that if Shuuichi had been looking at him instead of the flooring, he might well have called the whole thing off.

Kurama, formerly Shuuichi, glanced at the window and tried to come up with all the reasons he should or should not go. _I'm between the frying pan and the fire,_ he thought. _Whichever way I turn, heat blazes around me, encompassing everything I once held dear. All I've ever known is being reduced to ashes._ Then he looked straight into the face of a man he would grow to hate impossibly more than he did at that moment, and said, with a soft lilt in his voice, "I'll do it." This evening, this man, this bed, and this brothel had forcibly ended his boyhood, and he was convinced that he had nothing more to lose after that.

"I knew you would, lovely," Karasu murmured, the smug, conceited tone of his voice sending shivers down Shuuichi's back. "I knew you would."

* * *

Kurama smiled his usual polite, reserved smile into the young maid's face, his beautiful visage never cracking as he continued kneading the bread dough firmly between the board and his skillful hands, his ruffed sleeves rolled up above his elbows. She blushed at his genteel admonition of what his lordship wanted her to do, and never noticed (as they all never noticed) the faint sarcasm on those words, especially evident on the phrase 'his lordship.' It was the master's birthday on the morrow, and every servant that could be spared, even the Viscount's trusted manservant Kurama, was working frantically to get the chateau ready for the in-pouring of guests.

The cook, ironically enough, had been sacked just days before for adding vanilla extract and salt instead of the usual currants and sugar to his lordship's scones. That, at least, was the ostensible reason for his release: in truth, Karasu had taken a rare, surprise tour of the cellars in anticipation of his soon-to-be party, and walked in on the old fornicator pressing his beloved Kurama into the wall of one of the earthen side rooms, gripping the only barely resistant manservant firmly in his hand and pressing his slobbering lips all over Kurama's delicate mouth.

The Viscount and Knight of the Cross had to be physically restrained from hacking his cook up with one of his own cleavers, and, in a usual fit of self-important lunacy, had let every servant involved go, including the elderly third-generation footman who had attempted to intervene on the cook's behalf. All the servants, of course, except Kurama—not for all the gold in the world would Lord Karasu give up Kurama. In the end, the cook was happy to escape with his life, and, along with the rest of them, lodged no complaints.

It was regrettable, Kurama thought, especially in its result of straining the relations between him and the rest of the help, but it couldn't be avoided. It was the cook's own fault for trying to take him when he was inside the mansion and busy with something else. Kurama was not overly fond of sex, but he had learned on Karasu's knee that it was an excellent way of getting what one wanted. In this case, the money for a present for his mother's birthday took precedence over his dislike. If the rotund simpleton had just waited and followed the plan Kurama had set up with him, he would have been able to have him to his heart's content—but no, no, he'd needed a kiss to sweeten the deal, and just as Kurama had known he would be, he was caught.

Kurama knew very well that the walls had eyes and ears in a mansion like this, and that Karasu would have found out about the dalliance sooner or later. There was a good likelihood he would have found out even if Kurama's plan had worked in its entirety, though the plot itself didn't lack in cunning—the cook enjoyed malt liquor, and had a tendency to blabber every secret he'd ever held when drunk. Kurama would never have chosen him, if it hadn't been for the fact that very few of the servants were both rich enough and interested enough to agree to something like this.

Still, being found in the midst of it nullified any attempts by Kurama to explain, and put him in a very awkward position indeed. He paused in his contemplations to turn the dough a bit so he could begin kneading it at another angle, and murmured a request to the matronly pastry chef who stood to his right. She had been conscripted from the Queen's entourage to begin planning a sweet, sumptuous, and grandly-scaled dessert for the party, and presumably a lot of money had changed hands to get her. Kurama hated the expenditure and the unnecessary extravagance, but found it impossible to hate the woman herself.

"Mr. Minamino, if you please, the master wishes to speak to you," a voice stated cleanly from behind him. Kurama, placing the accent in his mind as the rough, craggy sound of gravel and old parchment that constituted Bokuyo, Karasu's other top manservant, looked around so calmly that few people in the room would have believed he'd been caught off guard.

Kurama blinked at the upper servant that had ventured (against his will, undoubtedly) into the bastion of the lower servants, allowing a mild curse to form in his head as the immaculately dressed retainer before him pursed his lips and frowned. Bokuyo was a stuffy old man who had long ago earned Kurama's dislike, and the dislike deepened when he noticed that some eyes around the room were flattening as they fixed on him. Kurama realized that Satsuko, the pastry chef, was looking at him with barely disguised pity instead of the generalized hate, and suppressed a wince.

Of course Karasu would come out of his brooding funk right when Kurama was needed most—and of course it would be because he'd finally decided on a fitting punishment. Kurama sighed inwardly as he allowed one of the waiting staff to take over the bread, exchanging some polite words with Bokuyo before stepping outside the slim, beautifully carved cherrywood kitchen entrance to wash the dough and flour off his sticky hands. He used the outdoor pump to fill the washbasin with brisk efficiency, then alternated between rubbing his palms vigorously together and dunking them in the water until the last of the food was in the basin (though he generally deplored such waste) and not on him.

As the excess water was wiped onto a piece of soft calico left there for the purpose, he reflected on the nature of his problems, and the undeniable fact that, to a one, they couldn't be helped. A month ago, in a fit of rage over something not related to Kurama at all, his lordship had beaten Kurama within an inch of his life and put an embargo on the monetary reimbursments that would normally have gone to him. In a quieter moment, Kurama had gone back to beg Karasu for a few pieces of gold to buy a gift for his mother's birthday, then only a little over a month away, and been flogged for his 'brash disrespect.'

And if, Kurama thought bitterly, that same night after the flogging he was expected to service _his lordship_ as though nothing had happened, as though he didn't feel the burning pain, what of that? No one cared for little details like that when relating the sordid tale of the Viscount's affair with his manservant. He thought of the afternoon three years ago when he, in full, damnable ignorance, had agreed to this farce.

On second thought, he decided, it might be better not to remember that awful evening. The vivid images and potent feelings encompassed within it generally refused to retreat when he actually set about recalling them. That was one of the rare events in his life that still caused him to wake up screaming on some nights—and always to find himself lying on a cot beside the bed of the man who had dragged those screams from him. On the nights when Karasu awoke as well, resting on his elbows to look curiously down at his young servant with that awful sickly smile on his face, Kurama longed to butcher him like the pig he was and feed his meat to his own prized hounds.

Kurama brushed all those thoughts out of his mind, never allowing his face to falter as he walked around the dirt and gravel worker's path that traversed the portly sides of the mansion, not wanting to be faced with those accusatory eyes again. Kurama made his way through another side entrance and up the plain wooden servant's stair that hugged the windy outer wall of the chateau as it ascended to the third floor. He ducked casually through the slyly hidden panels of an opening into the main hallway itself, having long ago become accustomed to the various ways servants traveled around the main wing of the mansion.

Kurama padded along the sumptuous carpets and past the lavish rococo and baroque décor, all in the absolute epitome of the day's style, intent on reaching his master's room so the burning ache in his chest could be relieved. Maids, in keeping with custom, either acknowledged him with a curtsy as he passed or turned their backs on him (politely, to show their unworthiness). Which action they took rested solely on their rank. He had, by some whim of Karasu's, gone from a stable boy to the head servant in the manor, and done it all in under three years.

Unfortunately, that thought brought up its own string of bad memories. That was before Karasu had had his mother brought from the debtors' prison her husband had left her in, back when he had cried every night, and cried hardest when he was called down from the loft he slept in and raped on the piles of hay. It was a credit to Kurama that his face was never anything less than stolid as he walked down each familiar, detestable turn of these hallways, until finally he strode up another stairway and entered his lordship's private quarters, found on the exclusive fourth level of this, the oldest wing of the mansion (though there was a fifth, and, if you counted the elaborate attic space, sixth level).

He barely glanced at the huge fifteenth-century tapestry that covered an entire wall of the severe old room, depicting a carefully woven and thinly faded battle scene, the fully-armored knights (said to be led by a direct ancestor of Karasu's and woven by one of the family's ancestral ladies) more jousting than fighting for their honorable conquests. It was something out of another age, and when Kurama had first been called into this room, back when he was serving as a cook's boy (his lordship had gotten tired of Kurama smelling so strongly of horses), he had been so entranced by it he'd nearly gotten a beating for ignoring his master in favor of the tapestry. Nowadays, it had too many negative connotations to excite the same feelings of awe.

Kurama walked through the outer sitting room, past fauteuils and lolling chairs he had never willingly sat in, and then paused outside Lord Karasu's bedroom door to rap politely on its beautifully varnished mahogany plates. He had learned long ago the consequences of disrespect.

"Come in," a frozen voice beckoned. He kept his eyes lowered as he turned the brass knob with subtly shaking hands, allowing a perfectly correct bow to shepherd him into the room.

"You wished to see me, my lord?" he murmured, keeping his down-turned eyes away from Lord Karasu's face. They fixed on the bare feet of the arrogant Viscount, carefully avoiding any momentary glances at his upper body. Kurama wanted to snort when he noticed that Karasu was still dressed in his nightshirt. He must truly have been sulking, Kurama thought; how disgraceful.

"You know perfectly well why I called you here, Shuuichi," Karasu sneered, flicking a long lock of raven-colored hair behind him in an irritated gesture. "But, in light of the beating I gave you so recently, I've decided to temper your punishment. If you would be so kind as to help me get dressed," he added, his tone drying out by the second, "I will temper it even further."

At first glance, that seemed a perfectly appropriate way of addressing one's servant. At second, however, there was something undeniably off about the whole aside. It could be the enraged, lustful edge in the Viscount's voice, or the way the servant's cheek muscles worked harshly in useless anger; it could even be something as subtle as the reluctance that was etched into every line of Kurama's rigid form.

* * *

Kurama, sparing a disdainful glance over his shoulder that he tried to hide from Karasu, laid his upper body on the bed, keeping his lower body at a straight angle from the floor. The harsh weave of the outer sheet, which had been cut from an uncomfortable cloth and then over-decorated with a rich scene or pattern that Kurama had never been able to place, scratched at the sensitive skin of his bare wrists and chin, and he shifted his palms away from it in an uneasy gesture.

Hands curled around his hips, and he gripped the embroidery in silent, instantly foiled fear as he felt Karasu's body mold against his own. "Oh, my little fox," Karasu murmured, his harsh breath hissing in Kurama's ear, "Did you really think I wouldn't find out? Did you _really_…" the last word said through gritted teeth as fingers dug into his waist, "Think you would get away with it? Your body is mine, Shuuichi, not yours, and you have no _right_ to give it away. I'll have to teach you what happens when you do, shall I?"

Karasu smiled into Kurama's hateful face, potent rage filling him with a righteous sense of injustice. The door, meanwhile, was opened so quietly that neither Karasu nor Kurama were aware of an intruder's presence. That is, until the intruder began to speak.

"Karasu, you old cock, what is this? I came a day early to cheer you up from the awful mood you're rumored to be in, and instead find you fornicating with your servant. And that's after that doddering old fool told us, 'the master is indisposed right now and will not be disturbed.' Indisposed? I'll say you're indisposed! So it's true that you've taken up with that charming little manservant of yours?"

Karasu tossed his hair and stared irately at the rolled-up canopy above his bed, before he turned to look the interloper coolly in the eye, an icy smile fixed onto his face. "Suzuki, how pleasant. My manservant and I are otherwise engaged. Would it please you to have Bokuyo show you around the grounds? The flowers are lovely this season, I've been told." His voice was too formal and cold to leave any doubts on his view of Suzuki, who was a nuisance at the best of times.

"I've been told? You mean to say you haven't been on your own grounds? Bui, did you hear that, he hasn't been on his own grounds!" There was a nasty inflection in Suzuki's voice as he enunciated that, turning his head gracefully to shout it over his shoulder. It was abundantly clear that he was well-versed in the gossip of both Karasu and Bui's strange, barely-definable relationship, and Karasu's dalliance with his servant—and it was even more excruciatingly obvious that he was preparing to rub this tryst in both their faces.

Hearing Bui's name, Karasu stood up fully and turned around, a compulsive, almost petulant smile on his face. Kurama, forgotten on the bed, pushed his body upright. He felt demeaned and disgraced when Karasu coldly told him to return to his position—somehow it was worse for him to be found in such a vulnerable place than it was for Karasu. Kurama didn't look up as Suzuki moved aside and the blue-haired vortex of discontent stepped into the room.

"Hello, Karasu," a deep, rough voice stated with quiet dignity. Kurama finally raised his chin and gazed into small, melancholy golden eyes, set in a brusque, burly body. As he looked into those eyes, he felt oddly guilty for something that was by no means his fault.

Karasu seemed at a loss for a second, unsure of how to proceed under these circumstances, then fell back on his usual conceits to further the conversation along. "Bui, Suzuki, I'm glad you're here. I was just thinking of how to punish my little darling for an earlier transgression, and I believe you can help me. How would you like," he asked, the hubris in his voice mounting by the second, "to _have_ a former prostitute of the infamous White Fox?"

Kurama said nothing as Karasu auctioned him off, knowing that his position forbade interference. Ivory teeth worried his lower lip, mangling the smooth skin until a thin line of blood ran down. He closed his eyes, refusing to bend down for his audience's prying eyes, whatever Karasu's orders.

Karasu slid behind Kurama and grasped Kurama's available wrists, holding his pained, blushing servant in place for the two nobles's judgmental faces. "Beautiful, is he not?" the Viscount hissed, knowing that inside Kurama's blank, unflappable exterior, shame and hatred warred for dominance, blighting the edges of the mask that hid his emotions from passer-by. Kurama was proud above all things, and to be humiliated like this in front of strangers was traveling very close, too close, to painful territory.

They were so involved in each other's reverie and pain that they almost lost sight of the fact that their audience was not a faceless mob, but two comrades-in-arms of Karasu's who would not allow Karasu to bask in his prey's feigned indifference, or even stay quiet, for long. Bui, the injured party, was the one who inexorably broke the silence, using words to hide the sting of Karasu's blatant, flaunted betrayal.

"I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to be so gung-ho about forcing yourself on your own manservant, especially when he's so clearly unwilling," he grunted, the hurt in his monotone voice only evident to Karasu, who was bitterly annoyed that this meeting, which he had hoped to avoid, had finally taken place.

Karasu snorted and dropped Kurama's wrists, watching idly as he put them firmly back in place, his eyes narrowing and his face burning against his will as he looked off to the side. Kurama was mortified to be seen as he was at the times when Karasu and him were alone, and he was held in thrall by his lord and master with no chance or hope of escape. Those nights, which punctuated his life with bitter whispers, were always characterized by clutching his poise and dignity and praying that the hard lump of shame wouldn't be resilient enough to last the night.

"Oh, he's not unwilling," Karasu said dismissively, regarding his toy with a sardonic twist of the lips. "He's just feeling a little shy today. Aren't you, Kurama?" he taunted, the jeering so ingrained in his relationship with his servant that he didn't even bother considering the helpless fury Kurama was trying desperately to veil. A smirk captured Karasu's lips as he struck upon a new idea, one that seemed too clever, too good a source of fun to be foiled. "Why don't we prove it? Kurama, go give Bui and Suzuki a little kiss each, hm? Your obedience is, of course, entirely up to you."

The last line was said with such a mirthless undercurrent that everyone in the room, and Kurama in especial, was aware that it was an order, and the consequences for disobedience would be harsh. Kurama, in fact, was more aware of it than the other two; he knew all of Karasu's voices, and this was the only one that truly inspired fear. The repercussions for failure would be dire, that voice said, and the second they were alone again Kurama would be exposed to entirely new depths of pain.

"This isn't necessary," Bui began, but was cut off by Suzuki.

"Oh, I think this could prove highly amusing! Come here, boy; come here and kiss me."

Kurama, a haughty expression fixed on his face, fixed his trousers. He stalked forward as he fiddled with the buttons of his cotton britches, trying desperately to hide his humiliation at the eyes that picked and pried at his dignity with no thought to his own discomforts or wishes. To be viewed as something significantly less than human by Karasu and the other nobles was a familiar feeling to him, but it was rare that his shame was made public like this. It was galling, and excruciating, and truthfully he couldn't imagine any pain they could give him that would hurt more than being degraded in front of people who already saw him as an inferior.

He felt his visage sour as he strode over the light, itching carpets, all of them imported and sold for an incredible profit via shipments from the East, brought along the trade routes and bartered to merchant ships. He kept his eyes aloof as he walked, aware that his clothes were in disarray, aware that Karasu was watching him serenely, aware of the eager eyes of Suzuki, and aware of the light streaming through the curtains on the other side of the room, piercing the gaudy drapes and illuminating Kurama's shame.

Soon he was standing right in front of the smug Suzuki, and, a lazy, disinterested expression fixed onto his face, he leaned up and pecked him on the lips. A hand threaded through his hair, and he found himself forced into a powerful lip lock. Kurama jerked away, and allowed the shadow of a glare to creep into his eyes, wishing he could fight or yell or punch the offending, oblivious nobleman in the teeth. Kurama sidestepped, and leaned upwards to reach Bui's mouth, when a large, calloused hand fixed over his face.

"That's enough, boy. Go back to Karasu."

Kurama blinked, his mouth still covered by the hand, and then smiled surreptitiously against coarse skin as he shot Lord Bui a thankful glance. He looked behind him, at Karasu, who stood reclining against the embroidered bed sheets, one hand idly tracing the intricate spirals of one of the wood posts that connected canopy to bed. He gave Kurama an imperious look, which promised the continuation of his punishment at a later date.

"That will do. Now, if you two would kindly exit the room, my servant will finally be able to help me finish dressing," Karasu murmured dryly, his low voice carrying across the room.

Suzuki laughed presumptuously, and then, with a final, ironic wave, breezed out of the room, the images of his comrade and his comrade's servant burned into the backs of his eyes. Bui removed his hand from Kurama's small, soft lips, and, with a final look at Karasu, strode stolidly out after Suzuki. Neither of them seemed overly affected by this strange scene, or Karasu's promiscuous misuses of his power.

"Now, my dearest Kurama…" Karasu hummed, aware that Kurama was relieved he had given up on calling him Shuuichi, "Will you be so kind as to help me finish dressing?"

Kurama sighed, straightened his back, and went to work. It was far too much to hope that Karasu would, in the course of the next few days, forget all about the punishment he was slotted to deliver; he would just have to remain on his guard and hope for the best.

The best, Kurama reflected, was still a poor alternative.

* * *

Her majesty Mukuro, Queen of the Makai, cocked an eyebrow as she looked down at Lord Hiei's implausibly spiked head. "That's the finest silk the East has to offer, my lord Marquis de Shotoku. I wouldn't rip it so clumsily if I were you."

"Your majesty, if you don't stop wearing these damned ceremonial dresses right before you dally with me, I promise I'll leave you for a pretty milkmaid."

Mukuro looked down into crimson eyes that burned with aggravation, though lightened by his terse wit, and laughed. Against his will, Hiei felt his annoyance soften, and then idly dissipate. He had always loved her true laugh—the one of genuine amusement, and not the diplomatic tinkling she was forced to employ when the members of the upper peerage or the Heads of State were there. "Shall I call in a maid to help you?" She teased lightly, tugging on one of the stern, unruly locks of her lover's hair that spilled down from his head.

"Why not? We could have her join in, too. Haven't you ever been curious of the things your father used to get up to?"

The smile slid from the Queen's face, and a pained look flitted across her eyes, too quick to follow. She let go of his hair and replied, "Please don't bring him up, my little lord."

Hiei froze for a second, clenching his jaw and allowing his eyes to flicker upward, above her head. Mukuro realized that he was contrite, even if he was too proud to show it. "Turn around, and I'll undo this monstrosity," came the gruff reply.

The Queen of all the Makai turned around and bent over, pulling pins from her hair as she did, knowing with regret that by pulling them out and taking her wig off as carelessly as she had, she was opening herself up to another two or three hours with the hairdresser. Still, the pins holding her natural waves in place were yanked out, leaving yellow-and-orange tresses to cascade softly down her lovely back. It was the only soft thing about her, the only feminine indulgence she allowed herself, and so she petted and pampered her hair with real love. She never seemed to mind that no one ever saw it, thanks to the enormous wigs current Court fashion dictated she wear. She simply took pride that it was there, and at times like this she wanted Hiei to see one of the few things about herself she found truly pleasant. "You'll find a prize underneath, my dear Marquis."

Hiei smirked, his eyes narrowing as his hands found all the secret fastenings of the huge, grandiose dress with grim determination, desperate to see his lover unclothed before his own arousal flagged. "You finally found a dress you could accentuate with that pretty new stay you've been bragging about, did you?"

"Only you would call that bragging, my little lord," Mukuro said, smiling. Feeling the last of the secret buttons come undone, she turned around and allowed the dress, which she knew had cost a fortune to commission and another fortune to keep properly maintained, to sink staunchly down to the floor, where it retained its basic shape with the same unpleasant rigidity it kept when she was forced to wear it to state occasions. Her breasts perked up under the simple white chiffon, as if happy to be released, though they were still bound back. Two little bows, whose function was merely to impress, were tied tightly on each side of her bosom. Hiei smirked again, and then allowed it to widen into a grin, his eyes softening in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone but her as she licked her lips mischievously, glancing down at him.

"What do you say, my dear little lord?"

"Hn," was her only reply, and then warm, harsh lips captured her own, and they were both quickly pulled into a state of frenzy and adoration, too in love to pause, or be gentle and tender; too in love, in fact, to wait another second.

The ornate carpets gave in to their feet as they stumbled towards the bed, a pompous and regal affair that overtook the otherwise relatively simple dignitary's room. She leaned against the bed as he undid the stay, and then they turned about and writhed and panted and stripped what little clothing remained ardently from each other's bodies, intent on the satisfaction of lust and love, all in one. The tapestries and scenery paintings smiled down at them, as the young Queen and the young Peer operated under one of the most basic of human emotions.

"Beautiful," he told her—and for once, because this was Hiei and he could never lie, she believed him.

* * *

End Note: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.


	3. Brought to Bear

A.N.: I had a great time writing this chapter, and because of that, I'm going to let it stand alone. It _is_ less than ten pages, though, which is a little sad—I hope it proves entertaining despite its length. I would love it if you took the time to review and tell me what you think, dear readers. Feedback is one of the main things that keep me going, writing-wise. And don't worry, I'm not a wilting flower; constructive criticism is good too! Besides, reviews remind me that I should be working away on the next chapter like a good little bee.

* * *

Karasu's fete was located in the large inner atrium of the chateau, a Southern Gandaran feature that many of the more provincial nobles found awe-inspiring. The guttering radiance of oil lamps and tallow candles had been painstakingly placed the night before under Karasu's direction, positions selected in order to create mystique and intimacy while still maintaining enough light to see. The marble floor had been supplemented with rings of chaise longues and duchess brisées settled over thick, luxurious carpets, with a long area kept bare for the ensemble that had been hired at an exorbitant price to play through the night, and a narrow ring in which those inclined could dance, should they so choose—though few of the aristocrats did. Servants in neat uniforms and long stockings circulated with food and drink, keeping discreetly out of each other's ways.

Kurama, as the man in charge of the most vital parts of the room and the keeper of Karasu's wines, kept his face impassive and his eyes cast demurely to the floor as he picked his way through the party. The dusted and uncorked vintage Karasu had selected from the wine cellar himself and then ordered chilled in a cold running stream sat balanced on a tray perched between Kurama's palm and his shoulder. Kurama had spent a good four or five hours this morning buffing all the silver platters with his own two hands, using sand and silver polish until every imperfection had been smoothed to a flawless shine. He was, as always, unwilling to leave anything of necessity to the other help, knowing better than they how important it was to keep his volatile master content. Today this mollification was especially vital—Karasu had been in a quiet rage all morning, brusquely refusing all of Kurama's cajolement and barking orders to the waiting staff that his menservants, in private consultation with each other, took to be an ill omen.

The cultured crème-de-la-crème of Makaian upper society lay about Kurama, heads tilted awkwardly up like deer scenting something in the wind to facilitate their wigs, bedecked with facetious ornaments and ribbons that coiled frivolously into bows. Carefully styled outfits of the finest cloths hung off affected frames, silk and velvet and Chantilly lace all elegantly stitched and woven into nauseating proofs of wealth and status. Nobody was wearing their best, a casual snipe at Karasu (who was, after all, not yet ascended), but within Karasu's inner sect only Kurama was sharp enough to notice that.

He made his way through the knots of precocious conversations to the disreputable little circle of Karasu's comrades and associates assembled at the heart of the party, moving with unconsciously fluid grace and ease. He was consumed at times with keeping an eye on Bokuyo and the other servants, not wanting to be surprised later by the seeds planted now, knowing how easy it was for parties like this to unravel.

Bokuyo had been demoted by Karasu in favor of Kurama, who was currently serving in Bokuyo's place at the heart of the party. Bokuyo seemed to be taking some offense at that, which made working closely with him, as Kurama had had to do to get the mansion ready for guests, a nuisance. Kurama fervently desired to have the liberty to discuss with the man why, exactly, he was being honored with this position. Karasu was showing him off like a newly-trained colt at a fair, and Kurama longed enviously for Bokuyo's easy position, far away from judgmental, prying eyes.

Karasu was in the midst of attempting to preside over the whole expanse of nobles with his usual studied grace, though Kurama, looking coolly from the side, saw that all of those garnished heads turned quite earnestly, but almost imperceptibly, towards the giant, handsome aristocrat that seemed too large for the couch he sat on. The man certainly struck a singular figure: his military back was ramrod straight, and his unwigged hair, in defiance of pointless fashion, had been cut brisk and short. Kurama found himself drawn to this man's strange magnetism, respecting him for flouting all the norms that the other nobles so carelessly conformed to.

The spindly, grey-haired man who lay propped upright to the large aristocrat's right, his own lack-of-wig clearly more out of something akin to pretension than his neighbor's, began to speak as Kurama got close enough to listen, his voice a thin, sneering whine. "You've been cordially invited to the court's annual outing to Ginedine, Karasu, to see our Queen re-affirmed on her throne. A mere formality, of course, but it would still be unwise to disregard such a summons—don't you think?"

Karasu snorted and looked casually away from him, petting his lugubrious black garb with one hand as the other lifted his chalice to his lips, draining it of wine. "Of course, my lord Aniki. Perhaps you and your imposing brother will also be seen there?"

"Oh, we couldn't avoid it, much as we wish to," the nobleman hissed, before engaging in a high-pitched series of giggles that had very little to do with his immediate surroundings. Karasu gave him a disdainful look, which Aniki returned, his upper lip curling in disgust.

"And…" Karasu added snidely, "What is this I hear of you being exiled from _yet another_ whorehouse? Do tell us the particulars, m'lord Aniki—I could use a good story."

Kurama, who was working his way through the tepid aristocrats to replenish his master's supply of wine, forced himself to remain aloof as a pair of harsh yellow eyes paralyzed him, fixing on his face and then slithering appreciatively down. "Mm, yes; I had an altercation with one of the ladies present there. I'm in the market for a new scarlet shop, actually—any suggestions?" His eyes moved slyly back to Kurama, who was currently attempting to refill the giant's cup, Bui having casually put his hand over his own vessel to refuse. "I think this pretty little wench could take me, hm? What do you say, boy? Would you like to stop serving my brother and find a nice place to couple?"

Disgusted, half-amused murmurs echoed from all around him at Aniki's request. Kurama paused for a moment, and then fixed a soft smile onto his face, trying to hide the loathing that bit him in two. "Would you care for more wine, my lord?" he murmured, keeping himself casual. Aniki snarled, and a bout of appreciative laughter tinkled out from all the men and women gathered in the center of the room.

Trying to force away the promise of retribution and pain that those horrible, guilt-less little eyes granted him, Kurama made his way around the circle, filling fifteenth century chalices that were usually kept under lock, key and guard in the family vault, but which had been pulled out today to impress. Kurama tried to mask his unease as the conversation continued, making his way between the atrium and the kitchens for more bottles of wine and special orders of other spirits, returning to fill all the invited guests's chalices—many, if not most of whom were there more out of political necessity than any actual fondness for Karasu.

In the periphery of his mind, as he played the delicate game of politics and advancement that a servant in a room full of nobles must play, Kurama was focusing desperately on the ebb and flow of Karasu's loud conversation, sometimes above and sometimes below the polite chatter of the other guests. He could only make out scattered, far-from-soothing words and phrases that didn't tell him what Karasu was in truth discussing. Several of the people in this party it would not do to insult, and Karasu had an arrogant bullheadedness about him that often crippled his relations with other nobles.

"Yomi's army—"

"…Political assignations, and,"

"You must try this puff, it's absolutely di—"

"Such beautiful…"

Karasu's biting voice finally cut through the swathes of other causeries as the party settled down, guests glancing around subtly for the right impetus to leave. "Well, I think we should be taking a far stronger stance. Gandara is encroaching on our territories and clogging up the trade routes, and if—"

"That's enough, Karasu," a deep voice thrummed.

"Toguro…" Karasu said, suddenly sounding oddly timid.

"Let us reconvene in a better room if we're going to speak so candidly of politics. Besides, your venerable uncle and several of the other guests are in sore need of some sleep. The pains and ravages of old age," he grunted.

Kurama was called, and bowed politely as he was instructed to ready the bridge room, his scarlet hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail (his lordship had commanded he go without a wig), resting over his shoulder and tickling his chin. He was aware of several pairs of eyes looking at him appreciatively, and nearly shuddered. The fear was forced down, however, and Kurama left the room, beckoning surreptitiously to several other waiting servants, who followed him away to set out the brandy and cordial and make sure the snuff and pipe tobacco were prepared for use. He would have to be quick about it, or he would earn an embarrassing remark, or even a blow—something he didn't want to risk in Karasu's present company.

* * *

Having been excused from the bridge room by the large aristocrat, Toguro, Kurama sat outside for the first time in a long while, watching the late summer moon rise from behind an ebony horizon, the last vestiges of color delicately fleeing the visible reaches of the sky. It was a mystical night, heavy with the soft spray of a nighttime rain, promising to pick up later in the evening and swell the man-made streams that had been guided to the borders of the manse's surrounding garden, and then allowed to go delicately to seed.

From the gilt entranceway to the wide western wing, the manor appeared to Kurama just as it had when he first saw it, all those years ago: beautiful, but forbidding—glamorous, but gaudy. The manse itself, gardens and all, was wedged between an unkempt green that merged halfway down with a strip of heather, and a forest that crawled idly up the swell of the earth to the north and west. The woods started sparsely, and then consolidated, ash, elder and pine entwining over loamy hills. The fairy fingers of a rising fog curled and disfigured everything that lay before him, coating it all in cotton.

Kurama, so entranced by the beauty of his surroundings, never noticed the man who had padded up behind him. He let out a soft, pained cry as the wooden bat connected sharply with his skull, the force throwing him forward and off the stone wall, onto the ground, feeling dizzy and sick. He moaned and struggled blearily on his hands and knees as a second hit dulled him even further, feeling himself being dragged with some difficulty over the path and into a spacious tool shed, which was meant, at this time of evening, to be locked.

* * *

Many of the original hangers-on from the atrium had been shed with the same offhand ease a rent-girl uses to shed her clothes. "Where has your brother gone too?" the previously reticent Earl, Sakyo, asked Toguro casually. "He was here only a moment ago."

Toguro snorted, one of his eyebrows rising idly as he looked around him—not for his brother, but for his host. Not one to beat around the bush, upon catching his attention, Toguro began, "Karasu, if you care about that servant boy of yours at all, you may want to make sure of his whereabouts tonight. If you don't, well, leave him be. My esteemed brother has been feeling frustrated of late."

Karasu frowned slightly, trying to appear unconcerned. "I thought I made it clear to him that he was not to take his sickness out on my servants."

Toguro laughed briskly. "In his defense," he said, clearly amused, "the boy did provoke him."

Karasu paused, looking indecisive as he glanced towards the door. "Kurama would happily fornicate with him, I'm sure, given an incentive to do so. Still," he paused. "I will be back soon."

Toguro and the other men watched Karasu leave, Sakyo chuckling to himself, one of the first noises he'd made all day. "Shall we get on to business?"

"Let's. But first, we had better be sure we're not overheard."

* * *

Kurama hissed softly, his eyes swimming with the muddy puddles of his thoughts. Dust and dirt blown off the dilapidated work table he had been forced against by his attacker were sucked into his lungs by frantic, panting breaths, choking him, and causing him to gag and cough. He tried to reach with his bound hands for something, anything, to use in a fight, forcing himself to be surreptitious, but a familiar voice grabbed him and held him despite these meager plans.

"Would that be wise, boy? Mauling one of the heirs of the Toguro family?"

Kurama gulped inaudibly, glad that it remained unnoticed, forcing an iron mask over his face and suppressing a shudder. "Former heir, if I have my history right."

The nobleman cackled, his hands wandering forcefully over the body splayed in front of him. "Oh, you _are_ a little masochist, aren't you? Now here's what I want you to do, boy," Aniki said, violent excitement lacing his voice. "I want you to lie down here, and let me copulate with you. When I am done, if you've been a good little boy, I'll untie you and let you pull up your pants and go about your business."

"And if I'm _not_ a…a good little boy?"

Lord Aniki chuckled, softly and sinisterly, one of his hands worming its way through the clenched legs to caress the front of Kurama's trousers. "We'll see," he said in a chilling sing-song, "We'll see!"

Kurama's shoulders shook as he lay his head to the side, feeling wood chips and dust itch at his ear and cheek, little devils forced up by every breath, settling over his mouth and nose and choking him. He tucked his elbows in and openhandedly clutched at the edge of the table, relaxing himself minutely as Karasu had taught him to do.

"As you wish, m'lord."

Aniki's laughter became so shrill he was practically shrieking in delight. "But of course!"

* * *

"The real issue…" Toguro said, his voice a deep, thrumming rumble in his chest, "Is how we're going to keep the peasantry on our side. Mukuro is well liked by the people, and the common man seems to derive great enjoyment from her dalliance with the little Marquis."

"Yomi is encroaching on the narrows," Bui said quietly. "If something is not done to fortify it, and, on top of that, rid the seas of the privateers Yomi has been hiring by the dozen, we shall face some long, cold winters. Yomi will starve us out until an insurrection is at our gates, and meanwhile that pampered queen sits awkwardly on her father's throne."

"His money must run out eventually."

"Before ours? His land is fertile and his coffers rich. The mountains won't hold us for long."

"Yes," Toguro murmured. "Which brings us to our next point. We have in this room the next in line for the throne." Sakyo smirked to himself, sipping his decanter full of brandy as though he hadn't noticed the pointed mention. "People all over our country have expressed…" Toguro paused noticeably, "concerns, most of which seem to involve bedroom gossip. Much, in private moments, has been made to me of this heir's coarse treatment of women—though there are some who go in the opposite direction, and say that the heir apparent's unaccountable kindness to Shizuru of the White Fox is not an asset." The calm smile on Sakyo's face flickered slightly, but he kept his veneer intact. "Would anyone like to voice these concerns now?"

He smiled wolfishly into the dead silence.

* * *

Kurama almost caught himself praying to the God he had given up on so long ago as those foul little hands ripped apart his clothing. There was none of Karasu's pacing or smooth reciprocity about this: it was truly fetid, making Kurama feel akin to the lowest prostitutes of the narrows. He wanted nothing better than to grab the rusted trowel he could see in the rare moments when he opened his eyes and hack this lord apart with it, see blood flow with flecks of rust from sallow skin.

* * *

Within the bridge room, the conversation had drifted away from politics and on to pleasanter things. "And your wife, how is she?"

A bitter look crossed Toguro's face. "Fine, Lady Genkai is fine. She sits all day in her study, longing to be back on her horse again."

"The accident was a damned shame; I am sorry about it."

Toguro grunted noncommittally. "She's alive. I suppose that's all that I can wish for."

* * *

Karasu wandered over the grounds with the stooped posture of a hawk at rest, attempting to locate his servant with steadily increasing anger and embarrassment—anger that someone else was laying hands on Kurama, a fact that filled him with antipathetic fury, and embarrassment that he cared so deeply. He was becoming almost frantic, knowing that wherever Kurama was, Lord Aniki was undoubtedly there with him.

Aniki was a distasteful man by all accounts. He had been deferred from his rightful place at the head of the family by his father many years ago, removed in favor of his stout and intelligent younger brother, Otouto. Karasu had never cared to speculate on whether it was that bitterness that had made Aniki fixate on Otouto and stay near to his side, consistently loyal in a useless and catty kind of way. He cared even less whether it was that betrayal that had taken away all his social graces—though when the issue came up, and it rarely did, Karasu assumed with the rest of the upper peerage that Aniki's deviance was organic, and not made—there was something rotten in Aniki's mind, a depravity few people could match.

Preoccupied by these thoughts, it was almost by accident that Karasu noticed the scrabbled marks of something moving being dragged over the pathway to a pleasant little tool shed, which had been whitewashed for his party in an attempt to make it look less ramshackle. Finding the shed unlocked, he stepped quietly inside, his eyes burning bright carmine and his face and hair dampened by the drizzle, which was slowly swelling to rain.

Kurama had never before been happy to see Karasu, but at that moment, he was truly overjoyed. His eyes, big, beautiful emeralds, sparkled slyly back at Aniki, hoping that this rescue would result in an actual liberation, hoping that Karasu's avarice and greed would secure his freedom from the disgusting animal that stood behind him, trousers around his knees.

"Leave, Aniki," Karasu murmured, something cold in his voice that Kurama was too relieved to place.

"But we were just beginning to—"

"_Leave!"_

Karasu stood and watched as Aniki walked past him, snarling and fixing his clothes, cruel little eyes glancing longingly back at Kurama and resentfully to the side at Karasu.

Kurama, meanwhile, pushed himself up and managed to pull up his trousers, wrists still bound tightly together. He looked gratefully up at his expressionless master, and began to say, "Tha—" when suddenly a force was flipping him around and digging his tender back into the curved oak of the table. His wrists were dragged up over his head, arching him painfully straight up and down, a hand on his hip crushing him to his lordship's body as hard lips devoured his own.

Enraged, Karasu bit into his ear, ignoring the way Kurama's bright eyes blinked constantly in fear and pain, ignoring, or rather devouring, the flutter of his heart beneath his ribs. He suckled the blood he had spilled with fervor, hissing, "_You little slut._ I gave you—simple, so _simple_, instructions, that your body was _mine,_ that only _I _could take it; and yet at the first offer by anyone, no matter how despicable or low, you're on your back with your legs spread. And yet you blush and shiver and tease like a virgin when I bed you! You tramp, you diseased little _whore._"

"I—"

"You will spend the night in here until my guests leave. Any attempt to abscond will be met with punishments not for you, but for your mother—punishments so severe I can't promise Shiori will ever be able to _walk_… again."

Taking some pleasure in the wide-eyed, tremble-lipped, open-mouthed look of horror on Kurama's face, Karasu ripped out his boot knife. Kurama shrank away in fear, but rather than put it to any of the horrific uses that sprang to Kurama's mind, Karasu stabbed it a finger-width deep into the solid oak worktable.

"But m'lord, I—"

"Use it to untie yourself. And then…" A flight of invention took him. "I want you to cut all your clothing into strips. When I come to get you, you will be naked, understood?"

"Please, Lord Karasu, this perverse happening—"

"_Perverse? You dare speak to me of perverse?_" Karasu stood in eclipsing fury, trying to stem his anger before he used the knife to carve sweet flesh and mutilate smooth skin; and then, more as an afterthought than anything else, backhanded Kurama against the table with a smack that flipped Kurama around and dug his stomach into the wood, forcing his breath out, leaving him almost completely off his feet. "When they are gone, I will return. Understood?"

He left before Kurama could answer. Kurama shuddered, staring at the rotting wood of the door, bound hands braced against the table. He collapsed slowly to the floor, leaving clean lines where his fingers clawed away dust. On the dirt of the ground, he put his knees together, his hands, still encircled at the wrist by ropes, laying on top of them, and his head laying on top of _them, _thin shoulders shuddering. Looking much younger than his eighteen years, he wept into the cloth, hoping not to be disturbed for some time yet, though tonight stretched before him, long, cold, lonely, and wet.

For the first time in a long time, he raised his hands and silently prayed, for his mother's sake, if not his own. He was unsurprised to hear no answer—he hadn't really expected one. It had been a long time since he'd expected one.


	4. Bought and Paid For

Author's Note: Enjoy! Again, this is the abridged. There's more to this chapter that you can find on my Adulfanfiction account, should you so choose.

* * *

Kurama finally succeeded in rousing himself from the attack of nerves that had overtaken him, cursing him with a few desperate minutes of listening to the rain beat harder and harder against the slatted roof and threaten to wash away his hope and sanity with its frenzied hiss. The water that oozed in through the caulking, awry after only a few years of use, taunted him with puddles and patches of slick mud on the dirt floor, which he put forcefully from his mind, fighting to regain himself from the cliff his soul was perched on.

He stood up slowly, both hands clenching onto the splintered lip of the worktable as his arms tensed. His tight grip allowed him to to pull himself off the ground, hissing in pain as he flexed muscles stiff from cold and fear. Kurama hooked his arms over the broad plane to try and correct his lopsided balance, pulling his upper body along the pitted wood until he leaned against it, blinking thickly into the murky darkness.

Cat eyes, round and green, dilated in the restricted light of the iron lantern Aniki had left on a rotten bench to the right of the table, surrounded by dilapidated tools that lay collapsed and abandoned on the ground, glimmering between cobwebs sparkling with jewels of rainwater in the flickering candle glow. He turned his mind from it willfully, his chest numb with fatigue and hopelessness as he placed his wrists against the cool iron of the knife, beginning to saw at his bonds, and trying not to choke on the dust that the swirlings of his lacy cuff stirred up. He would remove his clothing now and be done with it, he decided—it would be foolish to risk being dressed when Karasu returned.

The rope came apart after a few minutes of painstaking effort, the knife, despite all the care he'd taken, etching into skin and flesh and drawing droplets of blood, which leaked down the blade's polished edge and mixed with the dirt, water, and wood dust on the table to make an ugly dun paste. Kurama unwrapped the cords from his wrists with a strenuous grunt, seeing that the rough strands had chafed him until he bled, leaving bruised marks where the coils had pinched.

He hesitated a moment, glancing down at what he could see of his livery in the guttering candlelight. The servant's tunic he was wearing tonight in honor of his lordship's party was fitted and tailored to perfection, masterfully embroidered with the insignia of the House of Kurogawa, an argent raven, which was stitched carefully into the sleeves and chest with silk and silver threads. In and of itself, it was a very costly commodity to keep and maintain, and replacing it would come from his own pocket, he was sure. Kurama came to a decision quickly, and took the livery off with some concern, hoping that his nakedness would be enough to appease Karasu. He folded it carefully and used a bare arm to wipe away the dust from the relatively dry portion of the worktable he'd chosen, not wanting to sacrifice his already unsteady income to re-outfit himself with new formal attire.

The cold, without his usual covering, bit at his skin and traveled straight to the marrow of his bones, undoing him until he was curled clumsily in a corner of the room, rubbing his naked arms for the slightest illusion of warmth that afforded him. The walls, the floor, everything was damp—the gaps in the tool shed's roof from poor outfitting allowed the rain free entrance, welcoming it in to rot and warp everything left inside. Kurama began to shiver miserably, the shivers getting heavier and heavier as the candle burned down to a muted, sputtering flicker, occasionally stoked into rising by the wet hiss of the wind, and then dulling again, almost to nothing. He prayed fervently that Karasu wouldn't leave him here all night.

Attempting to turn his mind from the approaching danger, he closed his eyes and focused all his thoughts on the quiet little cottage his mother resided in, tucked into a far corner of the mansion's expansive grounds. Built of four walls of white-washed stucco and stone and topped by a fine maple roof, ordered erected by Lord Karasu after Kurama had done some minor pleasing trifle for him, it was an attractive place, alive with flowers and comely touches of cleanliness and beauty. Around its southern corner, behind a root cellar and a little picket fence Kurama had built and painted himself, was her vegetable and herb garden, where Kurama sometimes thought he could spend forever and be happy. In this charming home, his mother and her pretendant, Mr. Hatanaka, a groundsman of Karasu's and a very nice man, lived with Hatanaka's young son Shuuichi. Shuuichi's name was almost amusing to Kurama; he saw much of himself in the boy, though that was an occasional irritation.

Kurama cursed the paths of his thoughts as he felt the familiar bitterness, long suppressed, eat at him in a hard little corner of his heart, knowing that the place of beloved son was day by day being displaced in his mother's soul by little Shuuichi, and that he, so often called away when Karasu needed him or embarrassed by the bruises Karasu left, could never be there for her in the way he wished he could. Besides, he knew better than anyone that Shiori, his mother, looked on him with the regretful memories of her first husband, the only reason she and Mr. Hatanaka were not yet, and could never be, married.

Remembering that Karasu would undoubtedly punish him all tomorrow, leaving him no chance or ability to attend the celebrations for his mother's birthday, he let out a tearless sob. Even if by some miracle Karasu did let him go, he would show up with no present, no cheer, and almost certainly in a physical state that, though only God could foresee it at this time, would cause his mother worry and pain. His lower lip trembled, and he got up and began to pace, trying once more to put all of his torment behind him and strengthen himself for the castigation that was soon to come.

* * *

Karasu, for his part, had been preoccupied throughout the gathering, his fingers noticeably tightening and then relaxing on his glass, shifting it from his knee to the ornate mahogany side table at whim—but never letting it out of his hand or sight. Aniki, too, having arrived minutes before Karasu, was in an intensely foul mood, sitting far away from the others with his muddy buckle-downs crossed irately on a satin pouf, and occasionally, as the night wore on (and his boredom and inebriation became more acute), muttering to himself, too low for the other gentlemen to hear.

Finally, the discussion was wrapped up, and all the men—feeling ill-at-ease that they had been so bluntly forced into showing their loyalties—retired to guest rooms or to the entranceway, where they could rouse their servants from the platefuls of food and flagons of ale they'd been enjoying and ready horses and carriages for drives to neighboring villas or their own homes.

Sakyo made a small gesture as he arose to leave as well, informing Bokuyo, summoned by Karasu via the bell-pull, to ready his carriage and call up his servants. He smiled as Toguro offered to walk him to the door, Karasu clearly too preoccupied to give them that courtesy. The two men had no eyes for their lavish surroundings, and were much too comfortable with each other to exchange any quixotic words as they departed, Toguro slightly behind and Sakyo slightly ahead. They turned from the main hallway into a bare corner of the mansion, bereft of eyes, and Sakyo leaned in close to give them the illusion of privacy.

"That was almost foolish, Toguro, to plot so obviously. It's very unlike you."

Toguro chuckled, tapping his chin while looking at a tapestry of a man and a horse—woven of too rough material to be in a main hallway, but perfect for the little nook it had been hung in. "I wanted to pull some of our more reticent supporters out into the open, as you well know—and maybe allow Mukuro to pick the weaker ones off. Besides, it's past time when we can conspire in the darkness. Yomi is forcing the issue more and more every day, as is her majesty, in her continuation of this senseless war—we must as well."

Sakyo stifled his laughter by biting a knuckle, not wanting to draw attention to their murmured conversation. He was tickled by Toguro's clever intrigues, and amused that a Field Marshall commended for his military brilliance dared to call Mukuro's war senseless. "I assumed you had an ulterior motive or two. Karasu's manor is hardly a secure location."

"Nothing is a secure location," Toguro grunted, "Karasu's estate least of all. That man is a fool." He paused. "Though there is much to be said for his wealth and simplicity. But enough, let's depart. My lady sits at home, waiting for me. I am due for an earful."

"You say that with so much less fondness than you once did, Lord Toguro."

Toguro said nothing, and strode towards the direction of the entrance with uncanny ease, leaving Sakyo to stand a moment longer, rubbing his chin, his eyes on Toguro's broad back and a searching, intrigued expression on his face.

Karasu, meanwhile, sat exactly where they had left him, deep within his own thoughts. He swirled the liquor he had barely touched, looking down at it with a stone expression, and then looked upwards, eyes narrowed in ill temper. He stood, smiling coldly at the last of his guests, and set the glass down finally with a sharp click, stalking feverishly through the hallways and past all the exhausted, tidying servants without any feelings of pity, and heading towards a side door that led to the curving path containing the desired building.

He was thoughtless of the rain that immediately began soaking his warm, dry clothing, chilling him to the bone. When he ripped open the flimsy door of the shed only seconds later, he was almost pleased to see that slim, beautiful back turned to him, trembling noticeably from the cold. Kurama started, whipping around and cringing silently away from the venomous look in his lord's eyes. All of Karasu's good feeling crumbled to nothing, however, when he saw that the livery he had ordered ripped was instead folded neatly on the table, illuminated by the dull light of the lantern Kurama had been putting his hands against for warmth.

"Why is this not in rags?" his lordship commanded sharply, striding across the shed and picking up the livery, shaking it so close to Kurama that the cloth brushed lightly against his face, Karasu's eyes narrowed to frozen slits.

"Please, my lord, I cannot afford a new livery," Kurama said, his voice soft.

"Did I not instruct you to cut it apart, boy?" Karasu snarled, his rage increasing inordinately as he disregarded Kurama's plea.

"You did, but I—"

"Be quiet," the Viscount interrupted, suddenly restrained. Karasu's voice was honey and molasses, sweet with cruelty and syrupy with lust.

Kurama's pearly teeth clicked as he shut his mouth, clearly afraid—and that fear intoxicated Karasu. Kurama stood, a blush rising to his cheeks out of some nameless defiance, his willowy body leaning back, away from the man who looked so fully prepared for cold-blooded murder, and Karasu found himself barely suppressed. He reached forward on impulse to comb his fingers through the damaged silk of Kurama's hair, and smiled fondly at it, enamored with Kurama's flinch.

"Come with me," he instructed, lust shoving aside his anger, and then he turned and walked through the door. He paused, and glanced back a few steps out of its threshold, seeing Kurama flushed with embarrassment and hiding himself in his hand, refusing to follow.

"I—"

"You wish to defy me? You long for me to drag you forcibly through the halls?"

Kurama's eyes closed tightly at Karasu's mocking remonstrance, imagining being strutted, fully exposed, down the narrow corridors and past all the patrician guests and amused, vindictive servants, humiliated and pained beyond any account, and then frog-marched up the stairs to be tortured until all the mansion heard him screaming. In an excess of fear, he nearly fell to his knees, raising tremulous eyes up sweetly above Karasu, to heaven, wondering if that alone could save him. Karasu stopped, mesmerized, his childish longing to see Kurama abased now twisted into something much darker, and much more complete—the longing of a devil for an angel.

"Please—" Kurama whispered from between delectable lips, tinged with blue from the cold, "Please, sir, don't do this."

"You should have thought of this shame," Karasu purred dryly, "before you whored yourself, my little courtesan. Come here." Kurama, overcome, hung his head. "Or—stay there."

Kurama looked up, flinching as footsteps approached, dull on the slippery patches of compacted mud and moistened dust. He yelped loudly as a hand threaded through the back of his thick vermillion hair and forced him forward into a hard pair of lips, which ripped him apart with a tongue and flashing teeth, laying him bare with a kiss, almost too brutal to be called so.

"Come with me," he whispered into Kurama's quivering lips. Kurama cringed from the brocaded trousers that scraped over his skin, and gnawed his own lip apart as Karasu left the forlorn little shack and turned on his heel to wait for his manservant to come. Kurama shuddered, but silently followed, eyes hardening with hatred and shame, cupping himself once more in his hand and trembling, he told himself from the cold, still coughing from the preliminary results of Karasu's ravishment of his mouth. He looked at the ground as he paused to blow out the lantern's candle, before following Karasu towards a side entrance to the chateau, not wanting to see the faces of those he passed, wishing he could blind himself to the world as he thought of the debasing walk he was about to be subjected to.

* * *

Youko leaned over the light from the lamp, peering myopically at the parchment spread before him, quill in hand. He twiddled the quill's point for a moment, stroking the proud eagle feather against his handsome chin, and then dipped the pen's nib carefully into the inkpot, shook a few hanging drops off it, and began to write.

_To my friend & associate, Monsieur le Baron,_

_You find me well, & prospering, by which I send this letter way of Shizuru. She will tell you herself of my transgressions, I am shure, and that longue discourse will leave you farther from me than before. My heart aches. On this night so still and devoid of pashion, the little Lady is at it again; though that, I know, you have many friends to tell you, & I need not bother myself. I write to say that the old scoundral sends to our Court his own flesh, like Christ himself, and that, at least, I am shure you know nothing of. A large threat to her has been sited, too, but I will not tell you about that, it is likely old news. Give Shizuru a dumpling and a few écus should you not have heard._

_YOUR BELOVÉD ASSOCIATE and faithfull servant, etc:_

_M. Youko._

_P.S. Forgive my brevity, it is of little importance._

Youko took the point of his quill from the thick paper, frowning at it, and then cupped a handful of the sand and began to spread it clumsily over the parchment, avoiding smudging the blue-black stains of the ink. Writing, especially so obliquely, was a skill that came to him early in life and lay dormant until much later, and was thus sadly difficult for him—the abbé who had taught him his letters had spurned the new style of Makaian, and so occasionally modern conformity of spelling was lost on him. He had largely overcome this handicap, though to a person of modern education, his writing was painful to the eye.

"Rinku," he called impatiently. "Go to Rui's, won't you? Find Shizuru, and bring her here. Should you succeed quickly, you'll be given a nice shilling."

The errand boy, leaning by the doorway with closed ears and a wide smile, saluted and turned, without a word for once, and raced rambunctiously down the hall and out the door in a long chorus of thumps and bangs, dissolving into the heavy blanket of the night.

* * *

"Shizuru, I don't see why you have to continue there. The Lord will forgive you, but it's not work a woman should do," Kazuma Kuwabara said, seated at the rickety table he had gotten for a few pounds from a dispossessed house, with his bowl full of the stew his sister had made of a beef bone, carrots, and potatoes, and two hard sixpence rolls, stale from the three days they hadn't been sold, in front of the soup, seated on a pewter plate with a hunk of sweating cheese. His chair was made up of two crates, one for lettuce and one for beets, which he'd filched from the docks (produce still inside) on a night of particular hunger for him and his sister, and bound together with cords. The wood, courtesy of a barge coming to the city upriver, was much stronger than that of the average crate, and smoother too—they were even both pleasantly grayed from old paint in a manner that made him, if not proud, then content to use for his table.

With the unmistakable inflection of a person repeating an argument said many times, Shizuru began, "Then men should do it, I suppose. Little brother, calm yourself, and answer me this: you boast almost nightly that you can supplement your pittance from the dock for my own, much grander income, but do you really think we can afford to lose it? It's I, not you, who pays the rent here and puts food on the table, as I tell you every night, and yet you continue to think of yourself as the breadwinner. It's enough to drive a woman mad!"

"If I hadn't refused that bribe—" Kuwabara started stubbornly, but was quickly stopped by another diatribe from Shizuru, who was exasperated as only an elder sister can be.

"Little brother, you _always_ refuse a bribe, or get in the middle of a fight, or drink too much and kiss your boss's wife. You'll have to admit at some point that you're not cut out for work."

"But sister—"

"No buts!" Shizuru cut in, unwilling to listen to her little brother's excuses and promises yet again tonight. "Youko doesn't overtax me, and we need the money."

Kazuma frowned sadly, and then stopped looking in his sister's eyes, choosing instead to turn their warm brown depths to the throw rug that covered up some of the worn planking of their little room, situated above Rui's disreputable pawn shop. Seeing that, Shizuru asked kindly, "What's the matter, little brother? Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I've heard—stories. Worrying stories."

Shizuru's kind look faded, and something bristly appeared on her young face. "Stories, indeed? What kind of stories?"

"That the infamous bastard, the Earl Sakyo, has been frequenting your, your—"

"My what?" she inquired dangerously.

"Your place of work. And—and you."

"And so what if he has?"

_"So what if he has?"_ Kazuma yelled, his quick temper roused by the careless way she said it. "That one is the worst kind of nobleman, Shizuru! He has a reputation that would make angels weep! They say he once poured acid over a girl while he copulated with her, just to see her scream."

"Fairy stories, nothing more. Kyosuke hasn't harmed a hair on my—"

"Oh, so it's Kyosuke now, is it?" Kazuma interjected rudely. "That conniving bastard, wanting to overthrow our fair queen…"

"I don't care who he wants to overthrow, it's just a matter of—"

A timid knock on the door couldn't stifle the heated argument, and went unnoticed by the two combatants.

"That's treasonous talk, Shizuru! I won't hear it!" Kuwabara announced, falling easily back into the comfortable discussion of politics. He was a Royalist who believed in the divinity of the church and state, and his sister a Libertarian with no particular loyalties to anything on this Earth or outside it, and they had lively debates on every possible occasion.

"Oh, shut up, little brother, before I trounce you again!"

"Miss…" a timorous voice sounded from the hall, outside the room.

"Oh yeah? I'm big now, Shizuru! You can't—"

"Miss?"

"I can't what? Do this?" The sound of a blow and the rattle of wood and thunk of flesh were easily discernable through the door, serenaded by a stifled yelp.

"You, you!"

"Miss!" the fluty voice called, a little louder, and this time managed to make its way into Shizuru's ears.

"There's someone trying to get in, idiot!" she snapped, and then grabbed her brother by his ear, hidden in his copper-colored curls, and dragged him towards the door—mistress of her own house, as always. He cursed and swore, his big boots stomping clumsily against the wood flooring as he staggered with her and her cruel hand to their front entry. Once opened, the portal revealed Rinku, smiling nervously up at the two siblings as they glared each other down through sidelong glances.

"Master Youko sent me to fetch you," Rinku said anxiously. "What were you two fightin' about?"

"Nothing that concerns you, child," Shizuru said absentmindedly, all of her anger forgotten as she hesitantly looked down at the linen cap that was crammed onto Rinku's head, revealing curls of woolly hair that twisted above his big brown eyes, a worried look raising his features.

"What is it, sister?" Kazuma asked gently, prepared to be judicious, but quickly became offended by her quiet contempt of him. She let go of Kazuma's ear and reached up to take her long ratteen cloak, moth-eaten, but still serviceable, from an iron hook beside the door where it had been hung haphazardly. She looked intensely serious.

"I will be back in a week, if this is what I think it is. Rinku, go back to Youko before me and get your ha'penny," she announced, and then breezed out, ignoring Kazuma's protests, and stalked down the rancid hallway to the stairs, intent on dispersing quickly into the night.

"A ha'penny?" Rinku yowled, this strange scene almost, but not quite forgotten. "He promised me a whole shilling!" He ran off, determined to right this monstrous wrong, filing away what had just happened for future use. They left Kazuma standing at the altar, scared of what had just transpired, and yet confused by it, too. He barreled to the window, and stood watching the shadowy form of his sister, usually so bright and happy, slip furtively into the night, unable to hide the trepidation that was clinging to her solid form.

* * *

The whip cracked again, drawing a pained shriek from Kurama's mouth, followed quickly by a second howl when the skin peeled from his back as the wet leather was ripped away. Kurama's bright eyes rolled into his head at the pain, clutching his bonds for dear life as Karasu snapped the moistened whip against his back once more, and then, grunting, leaned down to drag his tongue up the long rent, a thin puddle of red forming at the tongue's fold and dribbling down to his stained lips and the sheets below, before his mouth curled into a feral snarl.

Kurama let out a soft, syllabic cry as his head was jerked back and hard lips laid themselves against his ear. "Do you know why your mother is largely ignorant of what goes on in this bedroom, Shuuichi?"

Kurama let out a bizarre sound, half yelp, half growl, as he twisted away from the man who was treating him so brutally, his teeth gleaming in the few candles Karasu had lit to allow himself to see.

"—It was an edict I put out when she was first brought here, saying that any servant who dared to mention it to her, and later, that groundsman she took up with, would be ignobly flayed and hung upside down to bleed. What do you think would be her reaction, were she to find out the truth?"

Kurama gritted his teeth, trying desperately to hide how Karasu's words wounded him. "She knows," he grunted. "She's much more clever than you would guess, _my lord_."

"Does she?" Karasu said indifferently. "Now that's a shame. What then, do you think, would be her reaction upon seeing you, her slattern of a son, at your most beautiful?" There was dull curiosity about his voice that was interrupted by his harsh breathing as he took in the glorious sight before him, Kurama having never been more beautiful to him.

"Don't speak of her," Kurama hissed, his eyes flat with indignity and hatred as he glanced dangerously over his shoulder at the Viscount.

"Oh, such splendid eyes," Karasu said appreciatively, and then hissed to himself as Kurama's rage escalated to something magnificent, spurred on by Karasu's taunts.

Suddenly, stuttering pain made him growl softly and stumble backwards on the bed. "Don't speak of her!" Kurama snarled rebelliously.

Karasu looked down at the foot that had snaked forward and then hurtled back with deadly precision, and grabbed it, laying a gentle kiss right on the arch of the kicking ankle and looking at him with sudden venom. "Do that again," he hissed, low brutality in his voice, "and she'll do more than watch."

Kurama was perfectly aware that that was more than an idle threat, but he writhed, some threshold of pride forcing him to react rashly, without the circumspection and poise he needed to keep him and his out of trouble. "You will not touch her!" he shouted, and tried violently to rip his manacles free from the bed, putting his weight onto the balls of his feet and tugging until the veins stood out on his lithe arms.

Karasu, amused by this fearsome display, stepped off the bed entirely and sauntered to the wall, where a single tasseled rope, woven of heavy linen threads and dyed a rich, brilliant crimson, hung down from the wall next to the elegant rococo washstand and the clean, but gaudy chamber pot. His usual bell pull was right next to the head of the man who yelled and thrashed like a child throwing a tantrum, determined at this point to tear his tormentor apart with his bare teeth if necessary.

Kurama, absorbed as he was in his struggles, never heard the bells that tinkled a few rooms down. His inconsolable fury blinded him to anything but his efforts to free himself, which he was utterly consumed by. But then the door opened, and he froze, staring wide-eyed at Bokuyo, who stood smugly in the doorway with a perfect bow, a light smile looking sinister on his peevish face. Horror made Kurama's petal lips part and widen, his whole face transforming, as he understood the magnitude of what he'd done.

He'd done it, and now he had to pay the price.

* * *

End Note: I hope you enjoyed it! The plot itself will start to pick up soon, I promise. I'm still just planting the seeds right now. One quick note: you may have noticed by now, but Gandara, Yomi's territory, is modeled very loosely off of mid-to-late eighteenth century France (that is to say, the 1700s, and sans any of the political upheavals of the time), and the Makai is modeled after Georgian England (which covers that same time period). This won't affect much beyond clothing styles and money, but it is a distinction I wanted to explain.

Thanks for reading this! A tout à l'heure, mes amis! [See you later, my friends!]


	5. Burn

Author's Note: **This is your fair warning: there is a lot of explicit content in this chapter. I cut it, but perhaps not enough.**

**You have been warned.**

**

* * *

**Karasu's bedchamber crawled out from the circle of the lanterns' light, formless and misshapen, the candles bright as eyes in the darkness. Familiar bric-a-brac stood silhouetted against the despondent blanket of night, wardrobes looming from corners like hulking beasts and clothes on racks swaying with the wet breezes that blew through an open window, stroking icy fingers down Kurama's neck. They were the only stirrings in this otherwise airless room, making Kurama feel like a child, unable to sleep for fear of the imps that would steal him from his bed.

_After all,_ he thought bitterly, _a devil stands behind me._

Karasu's body gleamed demonically in the flickering light of the lanterns, his cunning eyes and pale skin all plaster, canvass for the red hearts of the whale-oil wicks. With his face cast in shadows and his skin absorbing the scarlet light, he looked to Kurama as if he were bathed in all the infernos of hell.

Kurama's fingers tangled with his shackles, curling hysterically around the cup lock and rattling it, knuckles turning white. "Milord, please—" he rasped, encircled by the bed, cursing the frightened husk of his voice, which still sounded hoarse from all his distressed shouting.

"You are to go out to the grounds," Karasu instructed Bokuyo carefully, a devious hand entwining with the bell-pull near his head, "and find the woman Shiori."

Kurama's breath caught against the lump in his throat, and he yanked the chains so hard his elbows jolted. "No, sir!"

Each word enunciated coolly, Karasu intoned, "You will bring her here, alone."

_"Sir!"_

Karasu smiled. "Do you understand that? Alone."

Bokuyo quivered in delight. "Of course, my lord," he twittered, standing in an obsequious bow, his whiskered face made terrible by the distortion of the candlelight. Two tufts of white hair stood straight up like horns, blackness hovering over the crow's feet and creases and folds of his aged skin. Bokuyo's crooked frame was painted by such unctuous lines that Kurama nearly screamed in fury, tussling for a moment with his bonds again, the brocade and blankets sliding into a crumpled mass behind his feet as he kicked at them. Blind rage had gotten Kurama into this mess, however, and he stilled himself, determined to let cool reason get him out of it.

Kurama's eyes were wide and wretched as he leaned against the rattan headboard, swallowing his fear, and felt the ornate carvings dig uncomfortably into the flesh of his cheek and throat. He pulled back momentarily, the awkward angles milking the nervous headache that was building to white agony behind his temples. Unmindful of the men behind him, Kurama blinked moist eyes, staring forward, and pitied the wooden birds that were frozen into the glossy lacquer, his distracted mind seeing something cheerless and gloomy in their lilting beaks and little wings. The candelabra's dim shadows made the sparrows seem to flutter within their entrapment, and he clung to that illusion as he tried to calm himself and steady his swift, gasping breaths. He looked up, pupils dilated, just as Bokuyo was being dismissed.

* * *

"Have you sated yourself with the destruction of your country?" Genkai asked thinly, darkness playing on her delicate chin as it was raised to point at him. She folded up the edges of the blankets, irritated by another day of servants and lonesome pastimes, and put all her energy into a belligerent glare.

"Lady, if this is how I'm to be welcomed into my own home, I might as well stay away," Toguro grunted, annoyed. He ran a bearish paw through his short hair, uncharacteristically peevish, and walked back toward the door, gait heavy on the wood flooring.

"Don't do that," Lady Genkai said, softly, for once, as her pointed chin creased in pain. "Don't walk away. You know I can't follow you."

Toguro paused, black eyes unreadable, and then eased open the door, shutting it behind him with a slow creak. Genkai stared bitterly at the forlorn spot of floor he'd left empty, far out of the circle of her candle. She brought a small hand to her forehead, face crumpling in pain, and compressed her tears within herself, tightening her chest so she couldn't sob. She didn't want him to hear her, though she suspected he knew her affliction anyway.

She cursed love again, for the thousandth time, and then maneuvered her twisted leg back over the crisp white sheets, staring at the wall, hand combing through the grayish-pink hair that had once caught his fancy. There was no help for it, she thought, and narrowed her eyes, trying to stop the itching tears from falling. She had a ways to sink before she let herself cry over a little argument like this.

* * *

Kurama's mind tried desperately to light upon a scheme that would free him and return Karasu's favor before the unthinkable happened. His eyes were wild with dread, slim brows knotted together in a crude line as he grasped the manacles with the same tenacity a drowning man uses to clutch a log, the iron etching into his skin.

"Please, Milord—" he whispered, his face tight with grief, "don't. Don't let her see me like this. Oh God," he choked, droplets escaping to forge paths down his cheeks, "please."

Karasu inspected him from his reclined position against the wall, intrigued in spite of himself by the torment on Kurama's face. His arms uncrossed, and he was across the room in a few steps, drinking in the tremors that went up the boy's back, all blood and cream, as Karasu sat down elegantly on the edge of the bed. Kurama's bright eyes were dull as he watched the Viscount reach out and begin to stroke him like a newly tamed animal, a fond smile raising his demented face.

He examined Kurama's rounding shoulders, the blades of his back sticking out as Kurama reacted to his mind, trying to deny the sadistic response. "I am not made of stone," Karasu murmured, moving closer to his servant's pinioned arms. "There are things you could do to assuage me—"

Hearing Karasu trail off, Kurama shifted, looking up into wicked eyes that raped him even now. Hope glimmered like a cheap, gaudy jewel in his chest, bucking off his pride for the slightest chance to spare his mother and himself this travesty. Her as an audience in this room would make everything too irrevocable, too real, and upset the delicate balance he feared had already been lost.

"Please, sir, whatever you wish…" he whispered, breathing deeply, and paused. He was desperate to keep himself from angering Karasu, desperate to regain the equilibrium, but his servility and his fear were running roughshod over his pride. "Whatever you wish from me, consider it yours."

The fingers lightly petting him stopped for a blissful moment. His relief was short lived—they trailed down his back, long nails scraping the tender skin, and cupped him indecently with deceiving gentility, massaging him lewdly. Kurama's legs jerked to close, needed to close; then, to Karasu's delight, slowly spread, his sore back arching to give the lord more room, little rivulets of blood from his scabbing wounds changing directions mid-drip to roll up instead of down. Kurama hastily fought away the hatred on his face, leaving behind the humiliation he urgently wished to strike from himself with acid.

Karasu, his mouth widening into a leer, leaned down, lips and teeth shining in the dusky light like a hound slavering for the kill. He whispered into a soft, shivering neck, smearing his bare chest with the blood his whip had left, "I wish for your surrender, your submission. Can you give me that? Can you give me your entire mind, your entire soul, your entire body? Can you—remake yourself for me?"

Lust made his voice quiver as he intoned the control he longed to have over Kurama, all thoughts of punishment gone from his mind. His hand tightened painfully, wanting to hear his servant whimper. Kurama obliged with a soft whine, his legs shaking, and then muttered something below his breath. The hand tightened further.

"Yes," Kurama breathed.

"Louder," Karasu hissed, his vulgar grin widening, finding delight in this sadism he'd never known before.

Kurama shuddered, his entire mind shrieking _no_. He would have shrieked it aloud, too, if he didn't hear a familiar voice outside the room, a terrible rapping on the door. "Yes! Please, sir. Please." He buried his face in the coverlet after that, hoping that Karasu would think his shoulders shuddered in shame, and not hatred.

"My lord," Bokuyo said, smoothly derisive even through the door, "I've brought her."

There was a moment when Kurama turned, his wide, tear-filled eyes meeting the tainted violet, and found he couldn't breathe, couldn't think—it was as if a threshold had been surmounted and passed in Kurama's sanity. Karasu watched.

"Take her back," he finally commanded, abrupt as ever. "I have no more use for her."

There was a shocked pause, and a woman's voice cut through Kurama's heart like a knife, murmuring something that made shudders run up Kurama's sweating back as it was lost through the door—but then, to his untold relief, Bokuyo harrumphed, and huffed, "Very good, my lord," sounding bitterly disappointed.

All the tension slipped out of Kurama's taut body, and he collapsed onto Karasu's hand and the silk sheets. When Karasu hissed, "Now, Kurama," his manservant barely heard him, caught up in his own reprieve.

The hand tightened. _"Now,_ Kurama."

He looked.

Days passed before he was well again.

* * *

It was a difficult endeavor to relocate the Queen's court from the palace at Lawrenceton, right outside of the city of St. Eugeny, to Ginedine. The trains her carriage pulled were comprised of the whole royal household: nobles, servants, soldiers, farriers, blacksmiths, prostitutes, and tradesmen of all types, who trailed behind her like a garish army headed off to war, trampling the countryside flat.

Mukuro hated it, but she kept up a queenly face as she and her entourage made their way to the Ginedine Road, leading to the religious center of the Makai, turning a blind eye to the courtesans and wives who flocked to the parade. She only made token gestures towards propriety as those ladies serviced everyone from the patricians to the soldiers ordered to the convoy for protection to the scraggly men that followed the dregs of the procession, a group that was swelling daily, accompanied by hundreds of peasants on foot and in carts, wanting to indulge in the nobles' scraps and feast on the amazing sights and sounds of the entire peerage a-horse.

When Mukuro wanted time alone from the whole ponderous process, she was forced to order her imperial guard to section off a part of the forest or farmland they rode through and give her time to sit with her inner circle, only one of whose company, that of Lord Hiei, she liked and enjoyed. The rest were noble sons and daughters, instated or not, whose relatives ordered them to ingratiate themselves with their Queen, which they did with a falsity that amazed Lord Hiei. He found their kowtowing irritating, and almost smiled every time he didn't laugh at one of the Queen's feebler jokes, or argued with her without bantering, prime subject for unanimous gossiping and scandalized looks.

Hiei was dressed in a black waistcoat with its edges trimmed in navy, strange and eccentric next to the frippery of the other nobles, with a cream undershirt and tall black riding boots that were currently crossed together. He was lying supinely on a lush little knoll that was speckled with bobbing daisies, thinking to himself, cynical as he was, that this pretty countryside would be crushed flat by tonight, the blossoms bleeding out under the thousands of hooves and feet and carriage wheels behind him. His upper body shifted as he turned and cocked his head to watch a bee seduce a flower, the two lovers dressed to match and entwining after a long, courteous dance of lazy drones and heads dipping in the wind.

Hard ruby eyes, dappled by shadows, turned back to his Queen as the bee twitched its stinger and lumbered off, the flower shivering as it dismounted, heartbroken. Mukuro was across the field, surrounded by wildflowers and hoards of circling gnats, too proud to shoot glances at her lazy paramour. She was snapping at an affected-looking noble with short blond hair, the wind stealing the words before they reached Hiei, as she continued her falconry with the other young nobles. She had, on a whim, requested a Gyrfalcon a few months ago (a bird which was traditionally reserved for a King), and took some perverse pleasure in learning how to assimilate to its massive bulk. For Hiei's part, he found no nobility in the hooded figures of the aristocrats' birds, or the twisted bodies of the prey they dropped for their masters, though he wouldn't deny Mukuro her pleasure by voicing it.

He smiled wryly, watching her majesty's arm jolt as the Gyrfalcon's wings buffeted her head and mussed the hair of her wig with feathers and great gusts of wind, flexing muscles artfully and taking off from her arm. Distracted by this comical display, observing the falcon begin to veer and wheel about the clearing, brushing the tree tops, he was unduly startled when a soft-spoken voice whispered behind him, "Good morning, dear brother."

"Sister, you should not be here," he snapped harshly, concerned. A rough hand levered down to push himself up, his crimson eyes deep and serious. Hiei lived in fear of Lady Yukina being sucked into the convoluted hell of politics. He was, accurately or not, convinced that her naivety and trusting nature would be turned and used against him, the Queen, or worse, Yukina herself.

"Dear Keiko has told me that our March is under attack as we speak—that there is a fear that the house will be burned by raiders. I had to come, brother."

"Let it burn," Hiei grunted. "And Lady Keiko has too loose a tongue."

"But the help…"

Hiei snorted, made unusually verbose in an attempt salve his sister's worry. "There are soldiers stationed there, and I ordered all our servants to be evacuated. They'll be at our palace home in a few days. The mountains and foothills are holding the basin of our land, so we will not be bankrupted just yet—it's just the house that stands empty. As it should be."

Yukina looked at him, her heart-shaped face pursed with worry, red eyes widening impossibly when he grunted, unable to look at her. She leaned forward to brush little locks of spiky hair from his forehead, fingers searing and soft against his skin as she tucking them to the left, drawing back when his shoulders stiffened.

Mukuro finally gave in and glanced at her lover, and immediately began asking the royal falconer to take Puu, her Gyrfalcon, away from her. She was across the clearing in a minute, ignoring the shocked murmurs behind her. Her smile turned almost imperceptibly strained when she saw Lady Yukina shyly smoothing out her flowered skirt, straightening the creased edges.

On an unmannerly impulse, the stately queen grabbed the folds of her dress in two hands and dragged them out of the way of her feet as she broke into an easy run, feeling her traveling wig come a bit loose from the momentum. It was delicious, but when she reached Hiei, her cheeks were colored at how graceless she must have looked. Her fine shoes were now soggy from the moist ground—it had rained again last night, though today everything was clouds and clear skies.

"Lady Yukina, well met!" she declared, Hiei squinting when he heard the jealousy in her voice.

"Your highness," Yukina responded brightly, curtseying.

"Rise, please rise. And how is Lady Keiko? Healthy, happy? I find it so difficult to talk to all of the lords and ladies here, even those I desperately want to." The contrast between how gaily she had run to them and how imperiously she was acting made Hiei, ever the critic, scowl—but he rose anyway, bowing deeply to her majesty with only a bit of scorn.

"She does well. I think that my brother wishes to escort me back to our carriage," she said softly, looking over at Hiei with a gentle smile, "so I believe I shall go, if I may be excused from her majesty's sight."

Mukuro felt a familiar pang of loneliness, but she smiled anyway, gracefully dismissing them. The familiarity with which Hiei offered his arm and brusquely led his sister away to their horses, her fingers light on his elbow, made Mukuro feel almost ill with fear of a day when her lover's head would no longer be bound so securely to his shoulders.

"Brother," Yukina whispered in his ear, glancing sadly back at the Queen who watched them go, "I did not come here with you to trade one prison for another."

"The peerage is a nest of snakes," Hiei said shortly. "Do not tempt them, or they will bite. Now let's get back to Keiko." He paused for a moment, bending down, and plucked a daisy from its bed, tucking it into Yukina's hair on impulse. This one, at least, would not be destroyed.

* * *

"Milord," Kurama said softly, "someone will see us."

"Let them," Karasu chuckled. Kurama hesitated, heart palpitating painfully, and then sighed. As Karasu's head fell back with a groan, his back arching with bliss, Kurama retreated into his own mind. Drifting there in the stillness of his thoughts, one memory returned, painful in its clarity.

"_We can run, darling."_

"_Mother?"_

_She looked at him with saccharine eyes, so like his own, despite the difference in color. Her hands patted him, stroking fondly through the silk of his hair, finding a bruise next to his lip and touching it. Her hand trembled when he didn't draw back, too numbed to pain to react to the wound being brushed._

"_We can run. Mr. Hatanaka, Shuuichi and us could make it far away—steal the Master's horses and go to Gandara, if need be. He has no power there."_

_Kurama tasted ash in the back of his mouth. "You'll be caught. I'm an indentured servant still—you'll be accused of stealing his property. He would hang you, mama. He would hang all of you: it's within his rights. He wouldn't hang me." The quaver in his voice was unmistakable._

Karasu tore free once he was finished and hurled Kurama from him by his hair, watching as he crashed against the opposite seat, an arm draped gracelessly over the velvet upholstery as his other hand went from easing his fall to deftly wiping his lips. Kurama swallowed and panted, realizing suddenly how hard it had been for him to breathe.

"I'm sure you don't mean to, pet, but you've begun to annoy me. You used to react so well to my movements. Tell me: what's changed?" His voice was all oil and sneers, and for a glorious moment Kurama was sure he wouldn't say anything—would take the blows.

The moment was over far too quickly. "I have other business on my mind, my lord."

Karasu snorted. "Could it be—escape? Revenge? Or have I pushed you too far for that?" He paused, noting the shiver that had crept up Kurama's back. "I've used you ill, my pet. Go." He leaned down to pat Kurama's side, smiling bitterly when Kurama moved away. "I am sated—you have a few hours free."

Kurama said nothing, leaving the carriage with his delicate features hard and rough, ignoring the groomsman on the carriage's back ledge that snickered as he passed. The Queen had ordered some fool stop yet again, and so all the nobles were intermingling with a heavy eye for rank and station. A young servant like him wouldn't get a second glance, except from the fashionable ladies looking for a break from their dowdy husbands. He hoped his insignia would frighten them off.

* * *

"Keiko," Yukina squeaked politely, "I cannot quite breathe."

Their heart lips were sealed in a gentle kiss, and Hiei looked away, glaring at the tent's door. When Keiko leaned back for breath, Yukina sighed and reached up onto her tiptoes to give her another little peck, smiling at the softness of her lover's lips.

"We're embarrassing your brother," Keiko giggled, smiling behind a hand and tucking long chestnut hair behind a boyish ear.

"Hiei, would you mind watching the door to the tent? I'd like—I'd like—" and she couldn't continue, blushing deeply and smiling at Keiko, who touched her arm and placed a gentle kiss on her temple, right next to the cool yellow petals of the daisy.

"Some time alone with your lady friend?" he said gruffly, looking just as embarrassed as Yukina. He paused. "So long as there's no strange noises," he finally muttered, and left through the heavy brocaded folds of the tent's door in a rush. The two girls smiled at his bashful exit, and then stood, Keiko's hand resting gently on the powdery-smooth length of Yukina's arm.

Keiko laughed again, a carefree laugh that made Yukina's heart fill, and then the Lady Yukimura undid a band on her low-hanging dress and slipped out of it, her underskirts and drawers outlining the slim lines and shapes of her body perfectly. Yukina leaned up on her toes to kiss those soft, succulent lips once more, helping Lady Keiko twist out of the knots of her garments, until two soft breasts were perked up in the cool air, nipples puckering.

Yukina sighed, resting her head between the mounds rising and falling with each gasp of air, nuzzling into the clean scent of milk and honey as Keiko unstrung Yukina's dress as well. Corsets and bodices fell, the two girls lying down together on a pallet nestled into a corner of their tent, little hands wandering over each other's bodies, moving against one another with warmth and familiarity as their breath panted out in calm whimpers. Yukina licked at the skin of Keiko's breasts as Keiko found the warm, moist prize between Yukina's legs, tucking back another unruly lock of hair as she ran her fingers over Yukina, knowing, after all this time, exactly how to stroke her so her legs fell farther apart.

* * *

Hiei was glowering at everything he could see, gem eyes stiff as he took in the standing lines of carriages and knots of milling servants. No nobles were in sight, all of them hidden behind hastily erected tents and platforms, fearful of the sun on their aristocratic skin. Hiei wasn't afraid of something as genial as the sun—Hiei sometimes liked to imagine that he wasn't afraid of anything.

His gaze shifted, glaring at a corner of the square the carriages and tents created, where a boy a little younger than himself was being dragged forcefully into view by the crook of his arm. He bucked and twisted, scrabbling against the hard earth, his long scarlet hair balled in another unsavory-looking man's fist. Both his assailants were dressed in the unbecoming garb of footmen, though Hiei couldn't see any insignia on them.

"Where are you taking me?" the boy demanded, trying to stomp on the arch of a leather boot, and earning a harsh jerk on his elbow for his troubles. It very nearly tipped him over into the dirt, and he gasped in pain as he stumbled, trying to regain his balance.

"Our master has requested you, boy. Count yourself lucky. We'll be at his tent in a moment," one of them said, while the other snickered into his hand, jerking the boy's head gratuitously far back, exposing a white throat.

The young servant dug his heels into the dust, trying to slow their progress. "I ask again," he hissed proudly, "who is your master?"

"—Lord Akihiko," one pronounced, his voice cool with insincerity.

"Why do you lie?" Hiei snorted, not moving from his post by the door of the tent. The three embattled men turned to him as one, the boy craning his neck to see him. "You're not headed to any _Lord Akihiko's_ tent—that's the direction of the Toguro family's enclave. I know your face, too, man," he said, pointing sharply at one of the footmen. "You're Aniki's lackey."

Hearing that, the redhead gasped and began to fight desperately, struggling in the men's grips and growling. One of the footmen kneed him harshly in the stomach, and the other wrapped a dirty cloth around his mouth with a practiced air.

"Sir," the larger of the two footmen said with a sycophantic smile, "Do not fret over the fate of this lowly boy. He owes us money, you see," Hiei's eyebrows rose at the fabrication, "and we're taking him to Lord Aniki to settle his debts."

The boy tossed his head wildly, his sculpted brows drawn together in fear, shivering at the catcalls and whistles behind him from a covey of mule drivers who were watching this exchange with interest. His eyes, disturbingly large and green, frantically beseeched Hiei to intervene; and yet somehow, they did so without groveling. It didn't take Hiei long to choose his course of action.

"Settle his debts? You mean force him down to be that bastard's plaything," Hiei grunted bluntly. "I had heard rumors, but I'm disturbed to see their truth. Let the boy go, and go back and tell your master this servant is under my and his lord's protection. The Queen will settle any transgression against him. Now get out of here before I call a soldier and get you a date with the provosts."

The footmen snarled, cowed by Hiei's imperious threats and commands, and let go of the boy, who immediately ripped the cloth from his face and watched them flee with something very like fear, massaging his arm. Those unnaturally bright eyes turned gratefully to Hiei as he stepped forward and lowered into a bow. "Thank you, my lord. This will not be forgotten."

"What's your name?"

"Kurama, manservant of the House of Kurogawa, if it pleases you."

"Whether it pleases me has nothing to do with it," Hiei said irately. "You should be careful, boy. Go back to your lord and stay near to him. I've offered my protection, but they could easily use you and kill you anyway, and make sure the news never reaches me."

Kurama straightened from his bow with the same immutable poise he had begun it, his eyes tracing the green brocade of Hiei's tent. "I find my master's carriage as dangerous a place as the boor's you saved me from, my lord," he murmured, and there was ferocity in his gentle voice that Hiei liked.

"I'm not surprised. Your master has almost as much a name for himself as Aniki." Hiei looked closely at the pain in Kurama's eyes. "Come here and stay for a bit, then. I'll have a servant bring us bread and wine."

He looked sharply over at a cheerful-looking girl to his left, who had peeked her head out of a servant's tent to find out what the commotion was about. To Kurama's amazement, she smiled widely at Hiei's peevish look, and ducked her silly shock of red hair back inside, returning quickly with the requested items on a simple wooden table, plus a wheel of soft cheese and a knife.

"Thank you, Hinageshi," Hiei said censoriously, which only made the girl smile more widely and curtsy clumsily, slipping back into the tent on running feet with a high-pitched giggle. Hiei gave her retreating back a put-upon glare that made Kurama laugh quietly.

"Is something amusing to you?" Hiei asked sharply. If it were anyone else, Kurama would have been put on his guard, but he was already learning the unspoken language that Hiei used to communicate.

"No, my lord," the warm honey voice said. Kurama approached quickly, drawn to the food like a starving animal, and was soon slathering cheese onto a hunk of flaky white bread. He inclined his head. "May I request the name of my noble savior?"

"Are you mocking me?" Hiei snapped, and Kurama's smile fell. He bowed deeply.

"Not at all, Milord. Merely conversing."

Hiei blinked at him, fiery eyes wide with annoyance, and then grunted. "I am Lord Hiei, Marquis de Shotoku. You said your name was Kurama?" He turned and saw that the servant was trying to remain polite while swallowing as much of the bread and cheese as he could, a famished look on his face. "—After you eat, then," Hiei said reluctantly, and leaned back on his heels. He blinked again when he noticed Kurama touching his stomach lightly where the footman's knee had connected. "And have that seen to."

"With all due respect, it's nothing, Milord," Kurama said softly. _I'm suffering from worse,_ he added quietly to himself. "Why are you standing there, if you don't mind my asking? What's in the tent behind you?"

Hiei grunted again. Kurama, who had just polished off the last of his makeshift meal without realizing it, found himself being guided with rough gentility into the servant's tent, where a blue-haired woman sat gossiping with the girl Hinageshi, both of them hunched conspiringly over a basin of soapy water filled with clothes. A man with short brown hair sat in plain trousers, his servant's livery folded over the back of his chair, peeling and paring apples in the corner.

"Koenma, Botan, I'm sure Hinageshi has regaled you with this man's ordeal by now. If you have the time, please see to his wounds."

The blue-haired woman, Botan, stood up immediately, sudsy hands flying to her face, leaving a slimy imprint and a circle of bubbles. "You poor boy! Hinageshi was just telling me about it." Kurama blinked, overwhelmed by the cheerful face that was thrusting itself curiously into his line of vision.

Hinageshi immediately began chasing Koenma and Hiei out, making Kurama indignant—he was not a woman, afraid of men's eyes! Despite protests, his tunic was pulled off with merry good will, and his shirt with it. The second it did, the good will froze, and the hands and amiable voices stilled. Suddenly soft arms were looping around him, a wet face and wet hands strange against his skin, making him hiss as soap dribbled into one of the bloody tears.

"Did your master do this?" Hinageshi sniffled into his chest. Kurama heard Botan fetching Lord Hiei and almost choked on his shame. He turned to see the triangle folds of the door being nudged aside, Hiei walking through—and Kurama blushed and turned his head to the side when he stopped and stared.

He hadn't looked into a mirror, but he could imagine what his back must look like, crisscrossed with bruises and untreated scars, wounds where chains or rope had bit alongside those of blows. He prayed that they wouldn't notice the abundance of marks on his lower back, and that his belt was keeping the worst of the damage from view. He held one of his arms and hunched his shoulders, not sure what to expect apart from the automatic pity.

"What cruelty," Hiei muttered. He saw the shame rounding Kurama's back, which would have been smooth and glorious but for the long rents of Karasu's whip, and said instantly, "I told you to treat his wounds, didn't I? So treat them!" The two subdued girls, standing away from him, glanced at each other as they jumped to the task, Hinageshi sniffling and Botan quiet, Kurama sure that silence was not a normal state for her. They sat Kurama onto a stool and began to tend to him.

Kurama didn't know why he wasn't resisting, wasn't even speaking—his own mother had never seen the true extent of what three years of Karasu had wrought, let alone tried to ease the pain. Hinageshi stroked his hand gently, giving him warmth and closeness as only a person who has received it their whole life can give, while Botan quietly cleaned out all the infected wounds, carefully removing dried blood and fresh. He turned quickly at the sound of a little sob, and saw Botan's face streaking with tears, her nose turning bright, cherry red. He froze, confused—he shouldn't have meant anything to these girls, and yet they showed more concern over his pain than anyone had done, even his mother. He knew that the comparison was not fair, that it had come to be because he did everything in his power to hide his agony from Shiori, but still, an ache in his chest began to blossom and work its way around.

"You can make a sound of pain," Hinageshi suddenly whispered in his ear, breath warm and sympathetic against his neck, smelling suspiciously like caramel. He turned into her serious little face, utterly shocked.

"What?"

"You haven't made a single sound the whole time. It must hurt, that's all. If you want to say something you can."

"We won't think less of you," Botan added immediately, nodding her head emphatically, twisted locks of turquoise hair bobbing as they framed her face. Stunned by the extent of their concern, Kurama smiled at them.

"It does hurt, but I—" he began, and then his throat closed up. He wanted to say that he could only scream on command now—that sounds of pain meant nothing to him anymore except in that they appeased Karasu—but he couldn't. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure of what to say.

Botan saw his dilemma, and without hesitation wagged her finger and told Hinageshi to go fetch some bandages. "Don't dawdle, and make sure to bring a fair bit," she called to her as Hinageshi raced through the tent flaps, almost stumbling in her haste.

"She's very diligent," Kurama mumbled, desperate for conversation. He was rewarded with an encouraging smile.

"Not usually. I think she likes you." That proclamation was also strange to Kurama: he was used, with the company Karasu kept and the make-up of the servants on the Kurogawa estates, to the unbridled lusts of men, not being instantly favored by a clear-eyed young girl. The lord's attentions had chased away most of the maids, and while he was aware of his effect on women, he was much more clearly aware of his effect on men. It was a pleasant surprise to note the difference.

Hinageshi returned, blushing, and Kurama was wrapped up with some degree of clumsiness and unfamiliarity, which was instantly forgiven by him as the girls' good humor returned. Soon enough, after the first shy fumbling, they were discussing their lives with Kurama with great aplomb, playing off each other to make him laugh and not seeming to mind that he didn't volunteer anything in return. Kurama couldn't remember when he'd last felt this happy.

As he was pulling on his shirt, his stomach, in a brave opposition to decorum, let out a loud grumble, and the sheepish young man who had just been stepping through the door, beckoned in by the voice of his lover, Botan, smiled and offered him an apple. In no time at all, Kurama had forgotten many things: his pain, his shame, his weariness, both emotional and physical—and that Karasu would eventually want him back, that the last words he'd said to him contained a promise for his return.

So things stood when Hiei walked in again, having apparently been standing outside the embroidered tent he'd first been guarding the whole time, and did something that Kurama had begun, in the back of his mind, to fear. "Kurama, I have been bombarded by women. My lady sister is up from her nap, and Botan has employed her and her friend, the Lady Yukimura, to aid in your cause. The unanimous decision appears to be that I should offer you a paid position at my estate. Are you of free employ or indentured?"

Kurama smiled sadly. "Indentured, my lord."

"I suspected as much. Still, a man like your master would undoubtedly respond to monetary gain—I'll offer to buy your contract from him, if you wish it."

Kurama's smile grew even more forlorn, his eyes dropping. "He wouldn't sell it to you, Milord. Believe me when I say that. Besides," and he could feel the whip's blows on his back as he said it, "I have to be back to him soon—have likely been away too long as it is. If I may be excused."

Hiei glared at him, taking in the off-center gaze and the blank wall of his features. "Do you know your rights?" he asked finally, annoyed, his voice gruff in order to hide the concern he would never willingly show.

"I do, my lord, but this is not worth bringing to court. Thank you," he said, "sincerely. This has been a pleasant afternoon." Without saying another word, he nudged by an entering Hinageshi and left, his face grim, Hiei staring angrily after him.

As he walked by firelight and through narrow alleys of cloth, wondering disjointedly why the caravan hadn't moved since morning, he was unaware of the head of red hair, more shocking than subtle, that bobbed and ducked, following his lonely walk back to his tent.

* * *

(1) Provosts: Gaolers, or jailers. He's threatening to have the two footmen imprisoned.


	6. Bonds

An owl hooted in the distance, the low, mournful coos drawing Kurama's gaze suddenly from the unblinking eye of the moon to his master, and then to a narrow opening between leaning tents that led towards Hiei's encampment. He felt wild when he looked around him. Everything he saw was in pigments of black and grey, as though color had been sucked from the landscape and then bled into the explosive violet of his lord's eyes.

"Milord," Kurama warned quietly, pressed to the wall of the tent, "you gave me a few hours off."

"I did at that," Karasu scoffed, sardonic. "And no sooner had I given it than you ran off. You look pleased, darling. Why is your face so bright?"

"You'll punish me for the look on my face?" Kurama asked, his voice tight with pride.

Kurama saw a blur coming out of the side of his vision, but was still surprised by the sudden blossoming of pain, his small frame jerking all the way down to his feet. His shocked fumbles against the tight cloth of the tent, which shuddered under his weight, amused Karasu. The blow had grazed Kurama's cheekbone, and clacked his jaw so hard he tasted blood. His hand went up instantly to caress the reddening mark, soothing it with cool fingers, feeling defiant.

Feasting on the lashes, light as shadows, that framed Kurama's off-center gaze, the graceful strip of white wrist exposed by Kurama's drooping cuff, and the thousand other pleasing parts of the image before him, Karasu relented to his desires, stepping forward to menace the young man's slimmer, smaller form. "Kurama, I find you so sweet—so meek, so mild and lecherous." His eyes narrowed, but his voice still purred. "Though you don't seem to remember your place."

His palms cupped his servant's pretty chin, Kurama's hand falling limply from his cheek to his side. Kurama listened to the distracting mutter of voices and low snorts of horses woven into the air around him, wondering what would happen if he screamed. Karasu leaned in for a prolonged kiss, massaging Kurama's unresponsive lips delicately with his own, his cock straining against his trousers as he felt Kurama's pulse speed up, thrumming sporadically beneath the skin of his neck. A dimple appeared in Kurama's cheek as he tried to focus on things not before him, on places far from this dim tent. An oxen lowed somewhere to his right, and Kurama's eyes drooped, locking himself in whimsical thoughts.

On an impulse, Karasu's drifting fingers wrapped around Kurama's throat, clenching. Both of Kurama's hands jerked up to the strangling fingers, his breath staggering out as the whites appeared around his widening eyes. A moment later Karasu's knuckles had loosened, the sides of his long digits resting lightly against the fine hairs that stood up with fear, the skin of Kurama's neck becoming clammy with sweat.

"Lay with me, darling," Karasu murmured, his mannerisms coated with pompous arrogance. Kurama relented, and followed Karasu's quick stride towards the door of the tent in a subdued stumble. Karasu drew aside the heavy flaps of cloth impatiently, his servant trailing reluctantly behind him into the ostentatious compartments of the tent, the air too warm and stifling, though Kurama's sweat was turning it cold. The youth coached himself to patience, determined to submit quietly to Karasu's lusts, the memories of Lord Hiei and his servants fading in the murky light and cloying, incense-ridden air.

Kurama barely glanced at his lord, though Karasu stood in front of him, having meandered through the delicate furniture somehow packaged and brought along the trail to be set up and taken down at every prolonged stop. Karasu perched on the bed to relax in his silk chemise and embroidered black trousers, sans coat and hat, his oiled hair in its usual long tail below his neck—Karasu, vain as he was, refused to wear wigs even when occasions required them.

Feeling wild and panicked under the restrictions of Karasu's acidic gaze, Kurama's lashes trembled as Karasu leaned up to hook a hand behind the untamable spikes of Kurama's ragged hair. Kurama relaxed his body without resisting, allowing Lord Karasu's strength to turn from an abhorrent caress to a sudden weight, bending him double and forcing his forehead to the thin mattress of the cot with an echoing thud. Kurama made no sound of protest as the fingers entwining loosely in the long curls of scarlet clenched and jerked, several strands ripping from his head and forcing a grunt and grimace of pain from him, bending him to Karasu's whims until he climbed monkey-like onto the cot.

Outside, a shadow detached itself from behind a wagon's spokes and knelt to stand vigil in front of a rip in the cloth, eyes wide with horror at the sight of the young man being abused. Hinageshi saw helpless tears crawl down Kurama's naked belly, his face tight and grimacing—his eyes resting sadly on a wall, far away from the oblivious man who knelt naked and grunting above him. She watched each pained expression that crossed his handsome face, expressions she would watch in her nightmares for many months after this, before she suddenly stood and bolted, startling a cat that was slinking by her, making it arch its back and hiss softly.

Hinageshi ran, and ran, and by the time she returned to Lord Hiei's tent, shaking and crying, one hand fisted in the cloth of her apron and the other pressed over her lips, Botan had to coax her into bed and rub her back for a long time. In an unprecedented show of concern, Hiei sat by her bedside and apologized for asking her to follow the mysterious servant. She shook her head, and entreated Hiei, her first real utterance since returning, to help Kurama.

"He hurts him," she said, and would say no more.

Hiei expressed curt frustrations to his sister that he didn't have an answer to his servant's beseeching words. The Viscount Kurogawa was far out of the Queen's control, and there were no legal means to use against him—none that would be successful, at least. A noble had sovereign rights over his holdings and all contained within it, and when men like Karasu, who was heir to a powerful duchy, took their eyes to servant girls, it was largely ignored. It enraged Hiei, but there was little he could do that wouldn't have massive political repercussions.

Hiei was not surprised at how strongly he had taken to this boy's cause. His childhood had bred a hatred of injustice. It would be allowed to languish for tonight, but only until the morning. A fresh eye might suggest an easy answer to this dilemma. Hiei slept uneasily, however, his dreams haunted with Kurama's shame, the laughing face of his father, and an overwhelming mat of unease. He tossed and turned at points, and moaned, awakening in the morning far from rested.

Jerked back to consciousness, Hiei's gaze skittered over the simple chairs and rugs that made up and insulated their expansive tent. His ruby eyes, wider than usual and free for once of annoyance, found the two ladies cuddled in their own cot to the side, and Hiei grunted, smiling. After pushing back the thick brocade blankets with a sigh, he eased feet onto the cool cloth floor, preparing himself for the day, washing and dressing before slipping out to find a place to do his morning exercises in peace.

Once out in the makeshift courtyard, he paused, seeing that the sky was beginning to lighten to a soft, agrarian pink, the smell of cooking fires and the soft chatter of servants rising above the various patterned nobles' tents and smaller servants' tents that lent against each other, askew, the closest ones rising above Hiei's head and creating the illusion of privacy. In the distance, songbirds twittered, water burbled, and the last of the frogs that had bleated and croaked through the night tiredly serenaded the sky, reminding Hiei that the world outside this tent city was still whole and hale, and would be long after this comical procession had left, and after all of them were dead. It was too common a thought for Hiei to be truly sobering.

* * *

The delicate boy lay weeping atop the cot, naked legs drawn up to protect himself and one hand loosely holding his other arm. Under his fingers, a large bruise was clearly visible, dark nasty purple against the too-pale skin that glistened in the light of morning, filtering oddly through the sides of the tent.

Bui stared, barely noticing the lack of Karasu, his mind torn irrevocably from the papers he'd been poring over when he'd wandered into the tent.

He felt sadly helpless when the young servant slipped from his master's bed, face stiff and grimacing from tears, and promptly tottered, reaching for his stale servant's gear numbly. He had to sit on the floor to even attempt to dress in his under things, long legs trembling, clearly humiliated by his weakness. When he could not slide them on, he lowered his head and growled in frustration.

It was Kurama's turn to stare when Bui crossed the rugs folded over the tent's floor and guided Kurama gently to his feet, murmuring to him as he helped him reach the washbasin. His warm voice, set to the cadence Bui usually used to soothe a skittish horse, quieted Kurama's pain, and Kurama felt intensely grateful when he turned from him once they'd reached the water, still warm.

"My master will return soon, my lord," Kurama whispered, his hands shyly stroking the insides of his thighs with a soapy cloth.

"He did this to you, didn't he?" Bui asked, deep voice oddly soft.

"He does it every night," Kurama dismissed. "It is nothing new."

"—I don't think I ever caught your name."

"My name is Kurama, if it pleases you. Or, I am called that. I was born with the name Shuuichi Minamino."

Bui felt his heart crack. He remembered Karasu's frequent assertions that this boy was a prostitute, and how callously Suzuki had joined in. Looking at the achingly small, achingly young form before him, upright only because of a grip on the washstand, Bui knew the full meaning of guilt.

"Were you really a—a courtesan?" Bui muttered cheerlessly as he gazed at the soft body before him, wanting to hear something that would shift the blame from his friend and sometimes lover and onto this servant. He had heard the stories of women being stalked and raped by men, and knew that conventional wisdom said that a woman raped will inevitably become depraved, fit for nothing but prostitution.

Bui, however, didn't believe it. A man had harmed his sister, Aiko, and he had seen the damage with his own eyes. Their parents had demanded that Aiko commit suicide to save the family honor. When she did not, she was stripped of her status and kept far away from the rest of the family, to nurse the baby growing inside her from the attack. Bui had been a teenager then, and when he'd argued with his father over their treatment of his sister one too many times, he'd earned the scar on his forehead. In the end, Aiko had given in and slit her own wrists, out in the garden. As she died, under the watchful eye of a servant who had been told not to interfere, she went into premature labor—the baby was stillborn. It sickened and disgusted Bui that Karasu, a man he not only knew but was attracted to, could create similar turmoil, filling this young man's eyes with such bitterness and shame.

"I was a prostitute for all of a week. My lord was the first customer I was to service," Kurama sighed, old pain in his voice that made Bui's hand on his shoulder tighten sympathetically. "My father was in debt. I was taken from my mother and sold to a brothel." His green eyes relaxed, far away as he remembered. "Lord Kurogawa took me then as he has every night since, and then bought my bond and dr—" he glanced at Lord Bui. "Brought me to his home."

Bui, who had never heard even a whisper of this story, felt the horror rising in the back of his throat. He had known that Karasu was a noble who lorded it over peasants—had heard the rumors that Karasu took what was not given. He had even seen the narcissist that resided below the charming façade Karasu used around his peers and superiors. Despite that, though, Bui had never suspected the man he'd lusted after so strongly was capable of taking such brutal advantage of a helpless boy, and he looked down at Kurama with real pity in his eyes.

Bui cleared his throat to say something, but Karasu's cold voice hissed from the doorway, stopping him in his tracks. "That's enough. Bui, if it can wait, I think I must instruct my servant in the telling of tall tales."

"Tall tales!" Kurama repeated disbelievingly, then blanched.

Karasu's violet eyes were hard as ice, his thin lips sneering as he looked at his rebellious servant. Bui remembered a man tried for the murder of his wife in his Baronage, his eyes twisted and focused like no man's eyes should be—the gaze of a murderer. Those were the eyes Karasu fixed on Kurama. "Bui, do please leave. He is only trying to seduce you, and it is clear that the child needs a lesson in _manners_." The last word was a hiss.

If Bui had any doubts left in his heart that Karasu was responsible for the bruises and welts that laced this servant's body, it evaporated. He was no fool—the boy was hunched over, clutching the cloth he'd been using to clean himself, his body trembling slightly in terror, and every movement Karasu made was an obvious threat.

Suddenly Karasu advanced impatiently, ripping the servant, Kurama, from under Bui's hesitant hand. Karasu wasn't looking at Bui's face, or he would have seen the sharp disgust that his cruelty brought. Karasu flung Kurama down onto his side by the bed, ignorant of his wince and the way he curled in pain, snarling, "Kneel, and put your hands before you."

Kurama shook as he complied, his eyes closed tightly. Karasu had meandered to another part of the tent, and returned with a long riding crop pulled from a saddlebag.

"Karasu," Bui said, finally finding his tongue, but it was not that that stopped Karasu. An entirely new voice growling from the doorway put an end to this chaotic scene.

"Do not think that I will allow this travesty to continue."

"Lord Hiei!"

Karasu and Bui turned sharply back to Kurama, who was staring hopefully at the intruder.

Karasu looked between the two, features closing at the look on his servant's face, like a daisy opening to the sun, and jealousy began to flirt with the rage he was nursing. "And what would the Gandaran traitor want here?" Karasu derided. "It's a noble's right to discipline his servants."

"Discipline? Even the cruelest in the house of lords wouldn't believe that this abuse is simple discipline."

"And why are you here, exactly? To correct my treatment of a wayward servant?" His voice was cool, but his eyes never left Kurama's back, curling in abject fear at the inflection behind the airy nonchalance.

"I came for him. Sign him over to me. I will pay what price you ask."

"I refuse."

"Then I will drag you through the Queen's court for rape and coercion."

"Kurama—" The Viscount's voice was soft, but venomous. "Your _mother _would not be pleased to hear all these lies you've told about me. I will have to talk to her about it—"

"No! Lord Hiei, I am fine, I refuse, and there is no need to buy my contract," Kurama babbled, frantic. He knew what Lord Karasu was threatening.

"Do you think I am a fool, Karasu?" Hiei grunted. "Now, suddenly, it becomes clear. Kurama, where is your mother?"

Kurama, head reeling, replied, "She's at my lord's estate." He looked deep into Hiei's eyes, his next words slipping out. "Please, Lord Hiei. He'll hurt her."

"_You treacherous little whore." _Kurama flinched. "So it wasn't enough for you, eh? Having one lord wrapped around your fingertips? You had to seduce another to keep on the side?" Hiei and Bui stared at him, shocked by the malice that coated his voice, the pure evil in his gaze. "Get out, Gandaran. You have no say over another lord's possessions, and you'll need this whelp's consent before you can take me to court, which you will never get."

"Then I will challenge you to a duel." Hiei's voice was angry, but final.

"Are you so confident of winning, then? Normally I would ask if that were not a stain on your family's honor, to quarrel over a worthless little tramp like this, but your family has no honor, has it?"

"Karasu," Bui muttered.

"Swine—" Hiei snarled, "family is not what makes honor. That boy has more honor than you."

"Little slut, come here."

Naked, vulnerable, Kurama crawled within range of his hands, too frightened to rise and walk.

"Karasu," Bui implored, becoming more insistent.

The Viscount ignored him, taking Kurama's quivering chin in his hands. "Do you have honor, Kurama? Brothel trash like yourself? Perhaps I should kill you and give the Lord Sparrow your body, hm?"

Bui had the ladder of a corner chair in his hand in a moment, and then slammed it against Karasu with an impressive amount of force. The crash startled everyone, and Bui stood panting for a moment, the splintered curve of the seat's back, all that was left of the previously dainty cedar chair, clutched tightly in sweating hands. Hiei stared as Karasu collapsed like a tree, listing over and then falling, hitting the ground with a groan and a solid thud. Bui stood there panting for a moment, feeling the contours of the cracked wood and frayed silk cushions in his hand, and then turned to Hiei with a grunt.

"Take him. I will attest that the boy ran off, and he will be obliged to believe me, even though he knows it's a load of horse dung. He cannot call me a liar openly, nor can he challenge you without Toguro breathing down his neck. Send riders to Karasu's house, spirit away the boy's family." Bui contemplated the handsome, bleeding man that was splayed on the ground amidst the splinters of the chair, his white face lax with unconsciousness. "Boy—I am sorry."

"Thank you," Kurama sighed, getting up from his terrified crouch next to Karasu's still form with an impressive show of reserve. "Thank you, and do not apologize."

Hiei, who had been watching the unfolding events doggedly, grunted, "Come, Kurama. We must find some way of hiding you."

Kurama nodded, and bowed to Bui. He slipped on his clothes, purposefully leaving off the tunic that would identify him as a servant of Kurogawa, and following Hiei away, still unsure at the giddy feeling that filled him, thinking only of one word: _freedom._

_To be continued._

* * *

Author's Note: The view that Bui reported towards rape victims was prevalent during the Victorian Age, at least, though perhaps not so common during the Georgian one. Since I'm playing fast and loose with history in this fanfic, I decided it would be okay to meld a few different eras together.


	7. Beginning

"Sore still?" Yomi asked in lightly accented Makaian, his royal upbringing clear in the perfectly formed words.

"You've used me rough, Your Majesty."

Yomi smiled sadly, splayed out in august magnificence as he balanced his head on a fist. "Your employer once said something similar, every night." Yomi paused, eyes lax. Shizuru, now off the bed, waited for the King's will with all the deference she could muster, her toes curling into soft carpets. "It's been years. I miss the cunning bastard, it's true."

"He speaks of you often, Majesty," Shizuru lied; more out of commoner's wisdom than pity. It was hard for Shizuru, thinking of Kazuma begging wide-eyed for bread in the street as a child, to pity a favorite of God's, lying stretched out handsomely on silken sheets, his heavy cock now soft and malleable between his thighs and the walls and floors of this out-of-the-way spring chateau ornate, sumptuous and elegant. He lacked nothing, as far as Shizuru could tell, except the object of his old infatuation.

No, she did not pity him, but kept her eyes lowered as she waited for the King to give her leave to put on the beautiful dress she'd worn, one of a wardrobe of gowns Youko had provided her with. Shizuru was awed and impatient, wanting so to leave and frightened of the man before her, who seemed lost in reminiscences.

Finally, the Gandaran King sighed, seeming to notice her for the first time in minutes. "You have leave to dress, and then you are dismissed." His voice was cool with decorum, and Shizuru wasted no time pulling on her clothes, curtseying as low as she could with a reverent, "Your majesty," and then slipping away.

Yomi rose with a grunt, eyes still wistful. He sauntered over to the crimson corner desk he'd ordered lacquered and placed in this room to consolidate space, though his adviser often berated him for installing such a crass thing in his royal chambers. Yomi agreed, but it couldn't be helped—he must work somewhere.

Still nude, his lithe ridges of muscle glistening with sweat and his own seed slicking his thighs, Yomi sat gingerly on the velvet-cushioned chair and picked up the letter Shizuru had brought from his spymaster and erstwhile lover, Youko of the White Fox. He read the words in black ink, then smiled, and gently pulled over a lit candle in a golden sconce, running the flame delicately under the paper until the lemon juice Youko had used to write the rest of the message browned, and became readable.

Yomi pored over the true letter with interest. The elderly king of a rival nation, Raizen, had finally had the foresight to offer what Yomi himself was offering, in the form of his half-grown son, Crown Prince Yusuke. Muttering to himself about the wisdom of a desperate old fool, Yomi leaned back and pondered.

Everyone knew, from King to Emperor to lowly peasant, what Yomi wanted. Unable to secure a marriage of convenience with Mukuro by strategy and wiles, he was attempting one by force. Yomi was vain enough to do everything in his power to ensure that Mukuro not give her precious chastity to anyone—it was her nation's most important commodity. Like any commodity in international affairs, when a country has a monopoly, it breeds discontent and conflict.

Yomi had rejoiced when she'd taken her first lover, the Marquis de Shotoku, whose family was only a recent addition to Makaian royalty after leaving their tenuous ties to Gandara (Marquis, after all, was not a Makaian title), but found the Lord Hiei unalterable, and doggedly loyal. Still, his existence and Mukuro's distance from the marriage bed was heartening—women, in Yomi's opinion, were foolish about lovemaking and matrimony. They never seemed to understand the ease with which men like Yomi could sit at the table with one woman and sleep with another four or five on the side. Hiei, a mutt of the lower house of nobility with dubious loyalties (in the eyes of the people, at least), could never be Mukuro's husband, and Yomi had begun this war to force her hand, and her marriage, wedding her to him or one of his suitably weak-willed relatives at sword point, if need be.

Raizen and his eligible young son were wild cards, previously annulled by that son's very youth—Prince Yusuke was, after all, only fourteen years old. Unfortunately, Yomi understood that if Raizen was finally making his move, it might spur Mukuro into finally choosing—and at this point, with the war still not pushing her to the point of desperation, it was unlikely she'd make the choice Yomi desired. Worse, Gritte would be a strong ally at Mukuro's back, and she could very well turn the tides of battle and go on the offensive.

Hope was not lost, however. The regnant queen was weak-willed, the boy was young, and he in especial was famously prone to wandering—easy enough to assassinate. Yomi chortled aloud when he realized that, by waiting until after their marriage and then wedding the Queen Dowager, he could earn himself three thrones for the price of one—truly a tempting proposition.

At the end of the letter, there was a sentence in code. It spoke of two men, Sensui and Itsuki, whom Youko thought could prove useful. Assassins, Yomi didn't doubt. Youko must know how to get in contact with them. Leaning back in his chair, Yomi sucked in breath through his teeth, his cum long dried. Then, idly, he balled up the letter and tossed it in the fireplace, watching long enough to be sure that the thing was completely burnt. He picked up a poker and stirred the ashy remains until nothing was left but dust, no sign of a document having been destroyed.

Yomi rang his servant's bell, deciding it was past time for someone to come and wash him off and help him dress. Political machinations could wait until after breakfast.

* * *

Meanwhile, Crown Prince Yusuke of Gritte was in the middle of a fine mess of his own creation. He'd slipped away from his royal guards, all disguised as peasants, for a lark in the town. It was a foolish thing to do in a foreign country, after demanding to be allowed out of the retinue for a time so he could walk uninhibited among the common folk. Now, however, he found himself pressed up against the dirty grey wall of a building by a very large, very distasteful looking man, who held a gutting knife lovingly to Yusuke's stomach.

"Now listen here, rich boy – strip, and give me all your clothes and cash, or my pig-sticker here will help you do it."

"How do you know I am rich?" Yusuke had been slipping out into the slums around the palace for as long as anyone could remember—he knew the accent of lower-class Grecians very well. The only dialect of Makaian he knew, however, was taught to him by his stuffy royal tutors, so without realizing or considering that fact, he had been addressing the shop owners with the inflection and formal manner of speaking only the most aristocratic Makaians would use, with a fair bit of his natural accent added in. When it came to intellectual pursuits, Yusuke was not an apt student.

"You've got way too posh an accent and way too nice a pair of boots to be anything else, love."

Yusuke snorted, cursing Hokushin, who had burnt his commoner's clothes before they left, insisting that "The fleas were too good a touch, my prince."

Yusuke knew Hokushin only worried about his master cavorting with Makaian common folk and thus losing his chance for the Makaian throne, but Yusuke didn't want the throne in the first place, and would never give up one of his greatest pleasures to get it. It never occurred to him that it was truthfully the frequency of situations like this that made Hokushin so anxious. "Well, I don't have any money on me anyway, _peckolle._ Go anger someone else." It was true—the Crown Prince had servants to buy things for him, and never bothered with gold. He'd already used up his store of coins for the ragged beggar children lining the side of the street. He disliked his new country. The war was bankrupting the state, which in turn bankrupted the people. Peaceful Gritte had its own history of pitiful innocents, but the bread, meat and fish that Raizen had orchestrated for the children of Gritte kept many of them from starving. There was no such construct in the Makai.

The man leered, reaching forward to pull at the Prince's cloak. Suddenly he grunted and staggered, the hand holding the knife drifting up wonderingly to touch the blood that was running down his forehead. A second rock hit him in the side with a dull thwack, forcing out his breath. Yusuke blinked at the scraggly face that swayed in front of him, distorted by pain.

Seconds later, the face careened. The man in the process of courageously tackling the mugger and wrestling the knife away from him had copper curls in an unkempt halo around his head and an ugly, but kind face, all angles and jutting cheekbones. When the knife had been removed, Yusuke grinned suddenly, and entered the fight with a debilitating kick, followed quickly by a stomp on the thief, who howled in pain.

"_Jā peckolle-kwaitēi_, do you like it? I'll give you another!"

The scuffle was quickly concluded in the boys' favor. When the man had run off, leaving the two panting, patting each other's backs in simple camaraderie, Yusuke asked his savior's name.

"Kazuma Kuwabara, at your service, sir. Would you mind telling me what you called him?"

"Called him?"

"That peckhole-something."

"Ah_, jā._ I think it translates to—fornicator of pigs. And thank you. _Dīnka_, in my language. You have aided me."

"_Your Royal Highness—sir!"_ a man shouted in Grecian from the entrance to the alleyway. Kuwabara turned his head at the strange sound of the words.

"Ah, Hokushin. Meet my new friend, Kazuma Kuwabara. We will take him with us." Yusuke paused, Kuwabara blinking, shocked to hear Makaian instead of Grecian, and more shocked by the content of the missive. "Do you have somewhere you must be, Kazuma Kuwabara?"

The floppy-haired boy smiled anxiously, and then it drooped. He'd finally lost his job at the docks today, after months of hanging on by a thread. Shizuru wasn't there to comfort him, and probably wouldn't have been much comfort anyway, though he missed her dearly. He'd been itching for the fight the mugger had supplied him with. Looking again at the rugged, tanned face and windswept black hair of the younger, shorter boy before him, however, Kuwabara's smile widened again. Yusuke had that effect on people.

"_What are you going to do with him, Highness?"_ Hokushin asked, advancing to his prince's side while rubbing his bald head fretfully.

Yusuke grinned, his eyes sparkling with cheeky goodwill. _"The old man's been bothering me to find a retainer."_

While Hokushin stood gaping, and Kuwabara stared, still unsure of what was being said, Yusuke clapped them both on the shoulders.

"This will be beautifully happy," Yusuke announced in his broken Makaian, and led his bemused and clueless new retainer away, signaling the start of what would be a long and arduous friendship.

* * *

**Author's Note:** What's this? A short chapter, consistent entirely of plot? Say it ain't so, Joe! Say it ain't so!


	8. Boon

Kazuma Kuwabara was bright red as he tried to push the appetizing plate of glazed mutton away from him, shaking his head comically at a disapproving servant attempting to fill his cup with wine. He sat white-lipped, overwhelmed by the grandeur surrounding him and clearly certain of his place in this royal circle, where even the servants had titles of their own. Yusuke was laughing to himself at the sight, but not nastily.

Raizen was an unorthodox king, and Yusuke had, like many children who take after their parents, surpassed his father in that regard. Raizen had skimped on the grooming and etiquette that every royal and noble child was given, insisting his son not be pampered, slipping scandalously anti-monarchical thinkers into his son's reading material, remaining lenient of his wanderings among the peasantry and his refusal to sit for portraits, laughing heartily when the Crown Prince shocked the Peers with a crude joke. Yusuke was a Crown Prince who acted, in everyone's opinion, like a rude stable boy, but more spoiled.

Raizen had every reason to seek a marriage between his uninterested son and Mukuro. He'd waited out of respect for the boy, but Yusuke's attitude wouldn't sit well as the ruler of the nation. Raizen was not a believer in absolute monarchy, but he also wasn't a believer in monarchies in which the King was nothing but a weak figurehead for the greater power of the aristocracy.

Raizen had also come to terms long ago with the fact that he was dying, though his son was only peripherally aware. Yusuke was Raizen's only offspring, and the child of his old age. Raizen's first wife he had married for love, but she had never produced on heir, or any child at all. When she died, and Raizen married Atsuko, his second wife, Yusuke was born within a year. Raizen was happy for that, though nothing could ease the ache of losing his lover fifteen years ago, the pain of hearing his people whisper that it was for the best.

As he grew more emaciated, rumors had started that he withered away for his love. The doctors said, in their bleak way, that no, it was a simple wasting disease. Raizen didn't mind—he longed to be in heaven, where he could see his wife again—but before he died he was determined to bury the hatchet and cement a friendship, and hopefully a marriage, between his son and his old enemy's daughter. For that reason, Raizen waited at the Court for the inevitable summons once the news reached Mukuro that the king of a rival nation was there.

Raizen rested, taking in the lavish surroundings of the Royal Court of the Makai at Lawrenceton, his feet up on a satin footstool after his long travel. He wished he could properly digest the delicious food Yusuke was gobbling with something far exceeding a normal appetite. His eyes fell pityingly on the ragged peasant Yusuke had announced would be his retainer, and he saw that the boy was out of his depths.

With a disapproving glance at his son, the king engaged Kuwabara in conversation in his native language. "Tell me of yourself, my boy. Who are your parents? What has your life been like?"

"Oh, I am, um, I am, K-Kazuma Kuwabara, your gracefulness, sir. I don't rightly know who my mother and father were, sir, I was raised by my sister. Oh please sir," the boy said suddenly, looking miserable, "don't have me beheaded! I didn't mean any disrespect, sir, your gracefulness, touching t-the prince like that."

Raizen laughed, feeling refreshed by the boy's honesty, and amused by his lack of knowledge of proper royal titles. "I am not in the habit of beheading people over my son's foolishness, child. Relax," he commanded, "and enjoy the mutton."

Kuwabara looked down at the meal as if seeing it for the first time, and then sheepishly began eating it, obviously not hungry at the first bite, though loath to disobey the order, and obviously becoming hungry as the succulent taste dissolved on his tongue.

Raizen leaned over to his son so he could whisper in his ear. "Alright," he said in Grecian. "You can keep him."

Prince Yusuke grinned victoriously, gloating, and then laughed as Kuwabara took a gulp of the wine and nearly spat it out, catching himself just in time.

Raizen leaned back and smiled, knowing that Yusuke needed a man guilelessly at his side if he were to survive a marriage with Mukuro.

* * *

"Where will you keep me, your lordship?" Kurama asked quietly, for the umpteenth time. The fastest riders Lord Hiei had been able to get a hold of had been dispatched with strict orders. Kurama prayed they'd make it to his family in time with a scant hour's head start. Sitting in collusion with Lord Hiei and Koenma was wearing what little patience he had thin. He knew he had to be away from here, and fast, though no one could decide where he would go.

"I'm not sure."

"How would you like to become a priest, Kurama?" Koenma asked. He was honored to be trusted enough to remain in Lord Hiei's confidence, and sorry that he had so few good ideas.

"I'm not religious," Kurama said simply, but Koenma snorted.

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Most of them aren't. The priests, I mean."

"You have an idea?" Hiei inquired.

Koenma looked away for a moment, eyes flattening in memory, and then smiled. "We could ask my father, My Lord Marquis." Seeing Kurama's look of confusion, he smiled wryly. "I'm the bastard son of the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Enma, the Lord Archbishop of Ginedine. Lord Kurogawa can't touch a member of the clergy."

"Theoretically, at least," Lord Hiei amended.

"Yes," Kurama said, "but he can find me. And the clergy doesn't grant me immunity from him. Besides, even if I became a parson, all Lord Karasu has to do is look for my name on the registry."

"You think he will rape you?" Hiei asked quietly.

"I think he will kill me, my lord," Kurama replied. "And even if he does not, he can prove easily enough that I am his absconded servant, even were my name changed. All he would have to show is that there are no records of my new name existing before today. And we cannot fabricate an existence this quickly, not one that will get me a place in the priory, at least."

"You cannot stay here," Hiei said sharply.

"My lord, you have touched it," Kurama admitted, "with a needle."

The three heads remained bowed together, quiet, making and discarding plans at a lightning pace. They were interrupted by fanfare from outside the tent, the sound of an increased rabble outside the door. Faces rose in horror.

"Kurama, quickly, hide yourself," Hiei snapped. Without wasting another moment, Kurama crouched behind the bed, pulling down comforters and sheets until he was out of sight. No sooner had he done so than a liveried servant opened the tent flap. He stepped aside immediately, eyes roving over them all imperiously.

"All kneel for Her Majesty The Queen," he stated cleanly, and then Mukuro, in full royal regalia, walked in.

"The kneeling is unnecessary. Please excuse us, my lord," she said to the noble servant, who bowed swiftly and then left. "My Lord Marquis, you're a fool," she said without preamble once the man was gone.

"Am I?" Hiei asked stiffly.

"Yes. I have heard repeated petitions from the Kurogawa estate to have you seized for the forceful kidnapping of servants."

"Do you feel kidnapped, Kurama?" Hiei asked lightly.

The blankets rustled and the beautiful young man came into view, immediately eliciting a faint stirring of jealousy in the Queen for his long, curling hair and bright eyes. "Not in the slightest, my lord," he said softly, and then bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."

Queen Mukuro glanced around the cozy tent, taking in the deep bows of the two servants and Hiei's straight back. She stifled her longing, knowing she was here on official business. "I surmised the truth of the matter quickly enough, and summoned the Viscount Kurogawa." She watched the young servant blanch and shudder, the looks exchanged between the man Koenma and the Lord Hiei. "I found him to be a very unpleasant man. It was quite enjoyable to tell him you were acting under my orders, as I had need of an able-bodied man in the navy and thought his servant would be the perfect match. There will be a ceremony knighting you after you've come back from the war."

"The war, Ma'am?" Kurama asked.

"We will iron out the details later," she said cheerfully. "Come—he cannot touch you if you serve in my tent. Lord Hiei," she said coolly. Hiei was grinning.

"Your Majesty, if I may accompany you," Hiei ventured smugly.

"Of course, my dear little lord," she said, and Hiei realized sharply that that was the first time he had heard that nickname repeated in front of others. He smiled, wondering what about his headstrong decision to save this servant gave her such pleasure, and barked a brisk order to Koenma. The Queen, the Lord, and the subject all exited the tent, Kurama, the last one out, heady with this royal reprieve.


End file.
